


Hope and Redemption

by depressionlevelcorona



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Decisions, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional, F/M, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Film Noir, Grief/Mourning, Romance, Slow Burn, Soap Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27066802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depressionlevelcorona/pseuds/depressionlevelcorona
Summary: Slow romance/drama with John Wick and an OC Doctor. Trying to stick close to the characters and plot, but story will diverge eventually.
Relationships: John Wick/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Hope and Redemption

Chapter 1

_ Rei Lee _

Rei didn’t know why Winston kept her around. It had been one year since she arrived, with nothing but the blood-stained clothes on her back, and a name. But apparently that had been good enough for the silver-haired proprietor of the New York Continental. She knew she didn’t have the luxury to question his goodwill. She was more grateful than curious.   
  
She tried to make herself useful in the hotel. She had been a doctor, a surgeon in training. But her knowledge of general surgery had no use here. A place where internal injuries meant certain death for her “clients”. She was little else than a stitch doctor and a druggist of dubious medicine. She did not complain, and traded shifts with the elderly Chinese man, referred to only as “The Doctor.” He was a kind mentor, even if he was gruff, and never revealed his real name. He taught her how to deal with the assassins they serviced. Which ones were friendly, which were good tippers. Which had tempers. One could never be too careful, even under the protection of Continental rules.

It wasn’t easy in the beginning. There was a time when she drank two fingers of brandy before every shift to stop her hands from trembling. She still felt disconcerted under the scrutiny of those who dealt so casually with death and violence, but routine won over fear. She welcomed that routine. Working late nights on clients at the hotel, helping The Doctor sort and count his shipment of drugs, dispensing and counting their stock. Work kept her mind off of things.

It was the days when she had nothing to do but sit in darkness with her thoughts that were the hardest. She had a room on the staff floor, above the laundry service. It was where the more permanent staff lodged so they could be on-call, 24/7 if necessary. She used it only for sleep, preferring distraction to solitude, though she couldn’t say she socialized much.

It was on days like this, when she had little to do, that she haunted the hotel grounds like a pale ghost. It was an apt description. She hadn’t been outside the hotel much, besides the rooftop terrace to get fresh air. She was an introvert naturally, but more so in this place. During the day she sat in a corner of the lounge, face hidden behind the antique books from Winston’s impressive library. At night, she made her way to the bar to sit in companionable silence with Addy, the club’s bartender, to enjoy the raucous jazz music, and take note of the newcomers and regulars.

Addy was one of the few she genuinely liked here, besides Winston and The Doctor. The tattooed beauty was vibrant, open, and friendly. She told her stories about the regulars, and she had an encyclopedic knowledge of alcohol that belied her carefree attitude.

“Doc, you have to try this.” 

It was early evening, and the club was just opening. Rei looked up from a leatherbound edition of “The Canterbury Tales,” as Addy slid her a shot glass of clear liquid. She took the glass automatically, smiling as the auburn haired bartender leaned expectantly on her delicate elbows. The glass was slightly warm. 

“ _ Kanzake _ .” The warm, velvety feel of the savory rice wine brought back a flood of memories, not all of them welcome. Rei downed the rest of the glass hurriedly, ignoring Addy’s slight frown.

“You’ve heard of it! You know you’re supposed to sip on it.. Like tea..”    
  
Rei shrugged, back to scanning the pages of her book. Undeterred, Addy continued.

“A friend of mine brought it from Kyoto. That’s real premium sake.”

Rei nodded, her eyes still scanning her book, hoping Addy would drop it. She knew Addy was curious about her past. But even after a year she wasn’t ready to talk about Japan. Even Winston didn’t ask.

“Heated to a perfect 100 degrees. Want another one?” Those green eyes sparkled, warm and open. Rei hesitated, guilty at ignoring possibly her only female friend.

“It’s lovely. I would love one.”

Addy smiled, reaching under the bar to pour her another glass of warm sake. But she wasn’t going to drop it. “You know.. I’m here if you ever need to talk about anything, Doc.”

Rei shut her book and turned her full attention to her friend. “I know Addy.” She took a sip of the sake, for Addy’s sake. 

“It’s been a year since I met you, and you still don’t look well.” Addy’s quiet, serious tone startled her. Her green eyes were earnest, her hands slowly reaching out to touch the tip of Rei’s fingers. “Sometimes it helps to talk..”

Rei couldn’t help it. She didn’t like that she looked and felt vulnerable, even to a friend. She pulled her hand away slowly, hoping she wasn’t offending. “Thank you Addy.” She meant it. But talking about the past made it all too real. Perhaps she was in a suspended state of denial, but it was all her mind could handle, even now. She gave the defeated looking bartender a tender smile, and thumbed back to her place in the book.

***

Winston arrived hours later, reading glasses askew on his nose, dressed immaculately in a pin-striped, three-piece, grey suit. As busy as the man was, running his underworld, he always made time to lounge in the club, a martini in his hand. 

Rei enjoyed his company, and she had to admit it was more than a kinship. She felt safe near him. He was a shrewd, strong man, and she owed him, though he never asked her for anything. She made her way to his corner booth, book in hand, a snifter of brandy in the other. He greeted her with one of his rare smiles, his steel-blue eyes twinkling as he raised his martini to her in jest.

“Good evening my dear. Not getting in any trouble are we?”

“I hope not.” Rei replied, smiling back and settling next to him. “How’s hades?”

“Operational.” Winston chuckled. It was a shared love of theirs, Greek and Roman mythology. And it wasn’t exactly a stretch to equate the Continental with hell. Winston gave her one of his mysterious looks, his eyes twinkling with some kind of secret. “Some interesting news.”

Rei took a sip of her brandy, enjoying the subtle sweetness on her tongue. She knew better than to pry into his business. The jazz singer was belting out a particularly catchy number, and the steady mixture of alcohol in her belly was warming her pleasantly. 

“What interesting news?” She asked, still distracted by the singer’s husky tune.

“I’m almost certain to have a visit from an old friend.”

Rei raised an eyebrow at him, wondering at his cryptic “news.” A man like Winston did not speak in half-certainties. Nor was a visitor all that unexpected, he had dozens of them every week.

“A visit from a friend— doesn’t sound all that interesting.” She replied, giving him her full attention.

“Oh, that depends entirely on the friend.” Winston’s smile was strangely fond, as he took a sip of his martini. 

Rei watched her companion, his eyes now faraway, seeing something in his memory. A flicker of a smile passed his lips, but there was no warmth in his cold grey eyes. 

“There won’t be trouble?”She didn’t like the look in his eyes, like he was weighing something meticulously.

Winston laughed, noticing the look on her face. “There’s always trouble in hades, my dear.” His face softened, and his hand reached out to cover her hand with his. Rei wondered vaguely what about her expression inspired so much pity. “But nothing to trouble you.”

She slid back her hand for the second time that evening, and offered her practiced smile. “Thanks, Win.”

Winston waved his hand dismissively, as he always did. “Nonsense. Your mother was a cherished friend of mine.. and so are you.” His eyes were gentle, almost fatherly. Rei couldn’t help the flush coming to her cheeks. She was achingly lonely and unused to endearments. Somehow, Winston made her feel like a child, not the 32 year old woman she was.

“You never told me how you knew each other..”

“That’s a very long story, for another night.”

Rei smiled ruefully, knowing the man was full of secrets. “About your visitor.. What makes them so special?”

Winston looked at her thoughtfully, as if digesting the question. “He is a man of contradiction, and a man with an iron will.” He looked at her carefully. “Not unlike you.”

“Like me?” She blinked, wondering if he was teasing her.

“Yes.” Those blue eyes pierced her, not a trace of mirth on his face. He did not offer further explanation.

As fond as she was of him, she didn’t like that he had a gaze that seemed to see right through her, as if the taint of blood that stained her from Tokyo to New York was clearly visible in her every step. She swirled her brandy, trying to ignore the nerves in her belly. “You speak in riddles.”

Winston offered her an apologetic smile, his expression instantly relaxing. “It was meant as a compliment, my dear.”

Rei was about to question him further, when a tall figure approached the table. He was a man she had never seen before, clad in a smart black suit. It was a handsome face, noticeable even when marred by fresh bruises and cuts, and covered by a short beard. It was his eyes she noticed immediately. Black, like his slicked back hair, vengeful, full of grief. She averted her eyes quickly when she noticed those eyes boring back into hers.

“Speak of the devil, Jonathon.”

There was a palpable pause in the hubbub of the club, as Winston said those words. Nobody stared, but even she noticed the slight pause in the murmur of conversation. She could feel discreet eyes on them.

“Winston.” His voice was surprisingly deep. She held his gaze this time when he turned to her. Something about the raw emotion in his eyes was intriguing, a rarity in a place like this.

“Ah, this is Rei, one of our Doctors.”

She nodded at him in greeting, still inspecting him, wondering what Winston could possibly think the two of them had in common. 

“I heard you were old friends sir.” She glanced at Winston, “I expect you have some catching up to do.”

Winston gave her a fond smile, taking her hand and brushing it against his lips. Rei resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she felt him slip a scrap of paper in her hand. Without saying anything further, she stood from her seat and made her way to the bar.

Addy greeted her immediately, busy mixing drinks from behind the counter. “Need a refill, Doc?”

“No, Addy.. But who is that man with Winston?”

Addy peered in the direction briefly, her eyes widening. “Holy shit, that’s John Wick.”

Rei frowned. The name was familiar—like a whispered threat. Something about that name held a lot of weight in this world, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on which story he belonged to..

“Wait. You mean the Russian Boogeyman?”

Addy nodded, still peering at the table. “That’s the one. I wonder why he’s here..” She sighed sadly. “I heard his wife just died.”

Rei nodded, understanding now the look of deep grief etched on the man’s face. “How terrible. No wonder he looks.. rough.”

Addy gave her a pointed look, her eyebrows raised as if to say “look who’s talking.” Rei ignored that look, and opened the scrap of folded paper in her hand. The top simply read, “Give this to Addy.”

“Here Addy, from Winston.”

Addy took the note without hesitation. It wasn’t the first time Winston pulled one of these stunts. The man lived for secrecy.

“Is this the guy who killed nearly a hundred...”

Addy nodded, topping off her drink. “Yes.”

“And he did it because..”

“To live in peace with the same wife who just died. Cancer I think.”

“I guess even the Baba Yaga can’t escape tragedy.”

Addy laughed, shaking her head. “He’s a good man, despite his reputation.”

Rei raised her eyebrow at Addy, wondering how the deadliest assassin in New York, at least by reputation, could be considered a “good man.” 

“Don’t give me that look, Doc. You know what I mean..” Addy expertly slid three drinks down the bar for a waiting server, before turning back to her. “He’s a man who loved his wife, wanted to find peace. He deserved more than the years he got.”

Rei nodded sadly, taking a drink of her brandy. She knew the hefty price of love. She clenched her hand on the glass, forcing herself not to go back to those thoughts.

“Doc, are you alright?”

Before she could answer, the named legend approached the bar, glancing at Rei before turning to an elated Addy.

“Holy Shit, Jonathon!” Rei watched as Addy half embraced him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The man looked uncomfortable at the gesture, standing stiff in his suit. In this light, Rei noted a cut on his cheek, still red and healing.

“Hey Addy.”

“My god, how long has it been, four years?” Addy was smiling, vibrant, beautiful. Rei tried to look away, but the exchange was fascinating, like watching a goddess mingle with a demon.

“Five and change.”

“So tell me, how was life on the other side?”

The man’s face softened, the grief etched in every line of his rugged face.“It was good, Addy. Far better than I deserved.”

Addy looked mildly uncomfortable, as if she realized she’d touched a nerve. “Hey I’m sorry to hear about your..”

“Thanks.” He cut her off politely, the impassive look sliding back on his face. He turned to look at Rei, clearly uncomfortableat at being overheard. Taking a hint, Rei nodded at Addy and slipped away, back towards Winston.

Winston said nothing as she settled back in the booth, trying her hardest not to spy on the couple at the bar. But suddenly, John Wick was facing them, and Winston raising his glass towards him. The Baba Yaga stalked out of the club, leaving behind his drink.

“What was on that paper?” Rei asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

Winston peered at her through his reading glasses. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He smiled at the look she gave him. “The name of a club.”

“That man looks hell bent on vengeance.”

Winston chuckled darkly. “You’re not wrong.”

“I heard his wife just died of illness.. What is he avenging?”

Winston thought about this, peering in his martini for inspiration. “Her memory.”

Rei smiled bitterly. “Of course. Anger is the second step of grief?” She ignored Winston’s pointed stare and finished her brandy.

“That smacks of jealousy my dear..” Winston’s voice was a soft murmur, full of concern. 

Rei noticed the buzzing in her head, warning her she had inadvertently had too much to drink, caught up in the excitement of the newcomers arrival. She knew she was saying too much, but it felt strangely refreshing. “Perhaps I am. It’s been over a year, and I’m still stuck in denial..”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Winston was looking at her quietly, not a hint of curiosity or pity on his face. Just a look of cautious concern. She loved him for it, the closet softie.

“Someday.. But I think I’ll head in for the night.”

Winston nodded. “Goodnight, Rei.”

***

It was 1:00 AM when her pager woke her from a deep sleep, vibrating raucously on her glass end table. She’d been dreaming vividly, but she suddenly couldn’t remember what about. She grabbed her pager, peering at it. It was from Charon at the Concierge desk, and it simply read “818.”

The Doctor lived in his own apartment in Chinatown—whatever it was must have been a great emergency, since it couldn’t wait for his arrival. Rei stood up, smoothing her rumpled grey trousers and white blouse. She glanced in the mirror, tying back her shoulder length black hair into a bun, and wiping away the smudged mascara from her eyes.

She grabbed her medical kit sitting in its black satchel by the door and made her way to the elevators. 

She didn’t even have to knock, a service cart was already on its way to the door as she made her way down the hall. “Room Service,” the young server announced, pushing a cart with a bottle of bourbon, a bucket of ice, and some glasses.

The door opened slowly, and it was Jonathon Wick. He leaned on the door, letting them in. Rei noticed blood pooling on his abdomen, and the way he favored his left arm. He looked at her in mild surprise, before replacing the look with one of practiced blankness.

She nodded at him, setting down her bag on his coffee table as she fetched antiseptic, gauze, her suture kit, and a bottle of local anesthesia and a hypodermic needle from her satchel.

He stood there watching her silently, until she motioned expectantly at the chair next to the table. He sat down heavily, and she could tell he was tired.

“Can you remove your shirt, Mr. Wick?”

He nodded, unbuttoning the bloody garment, and removing it from one arm. Wordlessly, she helped him with the other side, noticing the soreness in the left arm. With her freshly washed hands and sterile gloves, she pushed him forward, checking his back for injuries. He had a lot of tattoos, but two in particular caught her full attention. One with the Latin phrase, “Fortis Fortuna Aduivat.” The other a large cross, with hands praying above it.

It was strange to consider this assassin a religious man. He winced as she wiped away blood from a jagged stab wound to his belly with a cloth soaked in antiseptic. “Sorry,” she murmured, reaching for the hypodermic needle and anesthetic.

His large hand reached out to encircle her wrist, stopping her. “Just bourbon, please.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, but knew it was best not to argue with an assassin. She reached for the bottle of bourbon, adding a few ice cubes to his glass before pouring the drink and handing it to him. She watched as he took a long sip, another fresh cut gracing his brow, welling with blood.

She dabbed that cut with antiseptic too, ignoring his magnetic dark eyes, studying her silently. Rei hated to admit it, but being in the presence of this ruggedly handsome, half-dressed man was getting through her professionalism. 

“Fortuna Fortis Aduivat, not a common way to say Fortune favors the bold.”

He was looking at her curiously from behind his tumbler of brandy, but she focused quietly on the stab wound, beginning to suture. He didn’t even flinch as the needle went in. His pain tolerance was impressive.

“You read Latin?”

Rei smiled to herself, keeping her hands as steady as possible, and her stitches small and tight. It was a habit—she didn’t think this man would care much about leaving a scar. His entire torso looked like a minefield.

“Medical school.”

He nodded, then almost politely contradicted her. “It actually means fortune will save the bold.”

Rei looked up at him briefly, perusing the subtle difference in meaning. “Still seems wrong.”

John looked at her expectantly as she continued working, tying off the wound and placing a light piece of gauze and securing it with tape.

“Why is that?” The bourbon glass clinked as he took another drink, and she switched to cleaning the cuts that didn’t need stitching.

“I’m no assassin, but it seems to me the bold ones make their own fortune.”

He snorted, and she felt startled by the sharp sound, as brief as it was. “Perhaps.” He offered, as she reached for his left arm. She pressed on the shoulder and arm and the surrounding muscles, watching his face for any minute reaction. When she straightened his arm he winced.

She took out a sling, and helped him wrap it around his head. She caught the scent of sweat and woody cologne wafting from his neck as she wrapped the sling securely around his shoulder.

She reached for a plastic bag and filled it with ice, and carefully slipped it inside his sling. He was still watching her with those dark unreadable eyes. 

“What kind of movement am I looking at, Doc?”

She turned and reached for the bottles of medicine. “Minimal, or your cuts won’t heal, and you’ll worsen your arm.” She placed two bottles on the table. “Take this if you have.. more business. You’ll rip the stitches, but it will take care of the pain so you can move.”

She placed the second bottle on the table. “These are antibiotics. Take them for four days, just in case.”

He nodded. Then to her surprise added, “You’re a good stitch doctor. Barely felt those.” 

She inclined her head at his praise, unused to compliments in her line of work. “You’re a good patient. You hardly moved.” She returned his small twitch of a smile. “Winston and Addy spoke highly of you. If you ever need anything..” She wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but she slipped him her pager number. “Send me a page.”

He took the paper, and slipped her a gold coin with a terse nod. Their transaction over, Rei headed back downstairs. 

***

She barely sat down, kicked off her shoes, and was gathering her thoughts, when her pager rang again. She frowned, looking at the number--818. She checked her watch--it had been less than 30 minutes since she had left John’s room. She wondered if a stitch had popped, or if she had left the wrong medicine.

Rei headed back to the elevators, shoving her feet into her black oxfords. When she reached the door to room 818, she noticed a trail of glass from the room to the hallway. Startled, she knocked on the door, only for it to swing open instantaneously.    
  
John stood leaning against the doorframe, a pool of blood on his abdomen bleeding through a white t-shirt, wearing only boxers. His sling was nowhere to be found, and his slicked back hair was no longer tame, falling all over his face. The room was a mess. Glass from a broken divider, scattered furniture, bedsheets fallen on the floor, suspicious blood stains on them.

She hurried inside, motioning for him to sit, removing her toolkit from the satchel. She removed his shirt with scissors, unwilling to have her patient move after whatever struggle had just ensued. As she expected, the stitches had popped and the wound was weeping blood.

“Winston won’t be happy about this,” She muttered, wondering who had the audacity to attack a man on Continental grounds.

Jonathon shrugged, already reaching for more bourbon, wincing as she hit the wound with more antiseptic.

“Who did this?” She asked, frowning at the weeping wound, that looked worse than it originally did, it was inflamed. Most likely it had been struck.

He looked at her curiously, as if it was an inane question. “Perkins.”

Rei remembered the beautiful dark haired assassin. It made sense. She seemed brazen, and money hungry judging from her prior work. But she was also a high-end assassin, not one likely to take a small contract. “How much?” She asked absentmindedly, focusing on re-stitching the tender skin around the wound.

John raised an eyebrow at her in suspicion. “Why, are you tempted?” She was sure he was joking, but it sounded almost like a threat.

“I’m a doctor. Not in that line of business.” She pulled the stitch closed a little too tight, and he winced.

“For four million you might consider it,” he muttered in response, nursing his bourbon.

She swore. Four million was the largest contract she had heard of in her entire time here, by far, for a single man. “No amount of money is worth excommunicado,” She replied, shuddering inwardly. If she wasn’t already dead, Perkins was not long for this world.

“No,” John agreed quietly. “Not money anyway.”

She glanced at him, curiosity piqued by his response. “Something else is?”

He was silent for a moment, the ice cubes clinking in his glass as he set it down on the broken end table, wobbling precariously on three legs. “Yes.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. She finished the stitches on his abdomen, covering the wound with more gauze. She started working on disinfecting the shallow cuts on his body, then putting the sling back on his shoulder. He stiffened when she moved his arm. She dug into her bag to give him a prescription strength acetaminophen.

“Here, this should help with reducing inflammation and the pain. Are you expecting any other visitors tonight?”

John shook his head, taking the bottle from her hand. “I hope not.”

She hesitated, glancing once more around the room, and peering into the bathroom. There was no sign of a body. “Do you need a dinner reservation?”

John shook his head once. “She’s with Harry in the next room.”

She nodded, making a note to have housekeeping collect her in the morning. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Wick?”

“No, not tonight anyway.” She noticed immediately his grimace, a dark promise of more violence.

She nodded, reaching for the gold coin extended in his palm. “Until then.” She gathered her belongings, packing them back into her satchel. She heard him stand from his chair and stumble wearily to his bed. Before she closed the door, she felt a compulsion to look back at him. He was laying down, head leaned against a ruined feather pillow, his injured arm clutched against his chest. He didn’t look like the legend she had heard so much about. He looked world-weary, vulnerable.

“Good luck, Mr. Wick.” She said quietly, unsure if he even heard her. But he raised his good arm in reply, as she slipped outside the door.

***

By the next morning, the tale of John Wick’s return was whispered in all corners of the Continental. Rei didn’t even have to ask--she heard the tale over and over again at the lounge during morning coffee, her clients whispering as she attended to their wounds. Tales of a man who slaughtered 60 men in a heavily guarded night club, to avenge his puppy and his stolen car--or was it his dignity? The tale changed perpetually with the teller.

Viggo Tarasov was a well known name, though Rei had never met the man himself. But he was a legend--the Russian mobster who clawed his way up the ranks to hold New York City in the palm of his hand. Ironically, the very man who handed him the throne was the Baba Yaga, the man who now hunted his son. It was an epic tragedy, titans at war over a rude twist of fate. 

It was a compelling tale that occupied her mind more than she liked, now that she had met one of the players in the tragedy. It was a welcome distraction. For the next few days the hotel held its breath in anticipation. On the second day, they learned that Viggo had been cornered, nearly killed in his own car, and coerced into giving up the location of his son. The next day, to no one’s surprise, the brash fool known as Iosef Tarasov was dead.

When she spotted the tall, dark-haired figure checking out at the Concierge desk, she felt a pang of regret that the tale was over. Her life would resume as it had, a series of faces and tasks in a colorless world. Rei envied them. Viggo Tarasov, John Wick.. Men with the power to challenge their fate. Avenge the fallen.

She was staring. John Wick turned, as if he felt her eyes on him. Rei noted the fresh cuts on his nose and temple. His eyes were focused, but no longer full of anger. He looked almost peaceful, resigned.

When she remained standing, he slowly held out his arm, his hand outstretched. She stepped towards him and took it, noting the strength in his calloused hands, surprisingly warm.

“I heard you’re finished here, Mr. Wick.” She said, returning the firm grip.

“I am.” He replied. “Call me John.”

“I hope you’ve said goodbye to Winston.”

He shook his head. “He’s out. Another time.”

Rei realized she was still holding his hand. She slowly released it, wondering why she felt compelled to speak with him, this titan who had escaped hell twice over. He was kind enough to indulge her. Kind, a word she never thought to attribute to him.

“What comes next?” She blurted out, realizing too late the question was a bit personal.

He was silent for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure of himself. “Retirement.”

She laughed, half from nerves, and half at herself for expecting a more detailed reply. He raised a dark eyebrow at her, more curious than offended.

“Of course, Mr--John. It was a stupid question.” She composed herself, surprised at her own reaction. She hadn’t laughed like that since…

“Thanks for your help.” His words were quiet and sincere. She wasn’t expecting that, and felt a strange sense of loss, knowing he was going, probably forever.

“No thanks needed. We were all rooting for you.”

“We?” He asked curiously.

“Winston.. Addy.. All the doctors.”

“Quite the fanclub.” He replied dryly.

Rei suppressed another laugh, out of her element. He looked at her, quietly dignified, before nodding at her and turning back to the Concierge desk. 

She walked away feeling a mixture of loneliness, envy, and grief. She could see the greener pastures he was headed towards, a place beyond her strength and skill. A place where he could grieve and come to terms with life and all it’s tragedies. She closed that door firmly in her mind, knowing it was foolish to yearn. She was alive, and she was infinitely patient. If it took her an entire lifetime, she had to find a way.

***

It rained most that day and into the evening. It was one of those freezing nights in late Autumn. Rei was sitting by the fireplace in the lounge, sipping her usual brandy. Canterbury Tales lay unopened on the table. She felt restless. The events of the week had awakened a thirst in her, one she had kept buried to stay sane. Old thoughts invaded her brain, and the slow burn of brandy on her tongue and throat did little to stop it.

She wished Winston were here, but her friend had not returned. His presence always calmed her. He was the physical embodiment of the rational and sane. She watched the drizzle of rain in the night sky, letting old wounds fester and the embers stir in her heart. She thought about going to Addy, and getting blind drunk. The thought was tempting, but too dangerous. A loose tongue and addled mind tended to get you killed in this world.

She was staring into the fire, so lost in thought, that she didn’t notice the drip of water on the armchair, nor the looming shadow of a large presence. What really brought her out of her reverie was noise of panting, and the sour smell of foul breath. It was a large brown dog, a pitbull. He was sitting by her stuffed armchair, soulful brown eyes staring at her. She reached out to scratch its head, smiling as he closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Doc.” 

Rei nearly jumped out of her chair in her hurry to turn in her seat. It was John Wick, standing silently behind her. He was soaking wet, his eyes obscured by the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

“Mr. Wi--John.” He was hunched over, and ghostly pale. Her eyes took in his disheveled appearance, from his tattered suit to the tell-tale stain of red on his abdomen, probably the same wound she had sutured two times already. He wasn’t shivering, but she didn’t like his color. Her “doctor” brain took over, and she motioned him towards the lobby elevators, reaching for the keycard in her pocket.

“This way. Hurry.”

She shoved the comforters and sheets off her bed, motioning for him to take a seat. She carefully removed his suit jacket, and cut away his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. She ignored the part of her that felt uncomfortable with the idea of a half-naked assassin sitting in her bedroom, and readied her toolkit on a clean towel. The wound on his belly had been jaggedly stapled. She swore, prodding the shoddy work as she tried to gauge how deep the wound was.

“What idiot did this?”

John raised his hand wearily. “Had to stop the bleeding..”

Rei grasped a staple in her fingers, and tugged sharply. John groaned. “I’m going to have to take them out, disinfect it, and stitch it back up.” She reached for a hypodermic needle and a bottle of anesthesia. He looked at her as if he wanted to protest, but she frowned at him. “This is going to hurt, a lot.” 

He nodded his assent, as she filled the needle and injected it into the surrounding muscle, and got to work on the staples. She focused solely on her work, using tweezers to grasp each one and tug them out. Too much pressure, and she would rip the tissue further. Too little, and the staple wouldn’t come out. She worked as quickly as possible, the wound was oozing and bleeding. With her fingers, she parted the wound slightly, trying to get a sense of the depth. Luckily, it hadn’t hit any vital organs.

She ripped open a bottle of antiseptic and poured it directly on the open wound. The anesthesia was working--he didn’t make a sound. She stitched it closed as quickly as possible. She was worried about his temperature. His color hadn’t improved much, and his skin felt ice cold. When she was satisfied she had closed and disinfected everything that was bleeding, she retrieved her blankets from the floor and motioned for him to lay back.

“I’m fine Doc, I’ve got to get home.”

He moved as if to stand, but she pushed him back down, hands on his broad shoulders. He fell back easily. She had a suspicion he was suffering from hypothermia.

“Not until your body temperature is normal.” She stuck a thermometer in his face expectantly, and after a moment, he took it. She filled a hot water bottle with warm water from her tap, and tucked it by his chest, wrapping him tightly with blankets.

“Did you finish your antibiotics by any chance?” He shook his head. Rei removed another hypodermic needle. She motioned for him to roll over on his side. Without thinking too deeply about it, she gently pulled down the waistband of his pants, and injected him slowly in the left buttock with antibiotic. He clenched, whether from embarrassment or the burning sensation, Rei didn’t know. Without skipping a beat, she took the thermometer out of his mouth.

“95.. You’re looking better but we have to keep you warm."

Now that he was out of immediate danger, Rei noticed how small her room felt. It barely fit a double bed and an end table, and the large presence huddled in blankets on top of it was taking up most of the space. She sat at the corner, processing finally the absurdity of the situation. The Baba Yaga was wrapped up in blankets on her bed, trying his best not to die of cold and blood loss. 

The Pitbull was there too, sitting in the narrow space between the wall and the bed frame. As if noticing an opening, he crawled his way towards her, and put his large head in her lap. She laughed, letting the nerves and adrenaline spill out of her. She rubbed his large head, as he licked her hands.

“Where did you find this guy?”

“An animal testing facility.”

She scratched the dog’s ears, and watched fascinated as he closed his eyes and sighed. She had never had a dog before, or a pet of any kind. Her childhood had been bereft of many ordinary comforts. She had grown up mostly alone, with a kind of benign neglect from her well meaning single mother. 

“What’s his name?”

“I haven’t thought of one yet..”

“Good boy,” she murmured, watching as the animal scratched a place on the floor, circled three times, and laid down. She glanced at her patient, laying still on the bed.

“May I ask what happened?”

For a moment, she thought he had fallen asleep. But when she leaned forward, she noticed his eyes were open, an intensity in his gaze so different from the man she had seen hours earlier in the lobby.

“Viggo.” His voice was rough and edged with anger.

From that one word, she knew the titan had fallen. “Did he come after you?”

“No. He killed someone. Someone important to me.” 

That surprised her. She didn’t think someone like John could be so emotionally attached to someone else. But the grief in his voice spoke volumes. Then she remembered he had also just lost a wife, theone who had given him the strength to leave this life. She wondered if the tragedy of John Wick was not his talent for hunting men, but his propensity for losing those he loved. In that, they shared common ground.

“I’m sorry, John.”

He was silent. But she felt compelled to continue. Something about this thread of commonality between them was strangely comforting. His palpable grief did not make her feel uncomfortable. It was then she realized why she felt drawn to him. Those eyes, that sadness, mirrored her own. Her grief was accepted by him, not questioned or pitied.

“I ask myself every day, why I’m still here and those who I love are gone. It never gets easier.” She reached for a glass from her end table, and poured herself a glass of brandy. She took a long sip, remembering the faces that she tried not to think of every waking moment. “At least you avenged your friend. I hope you take comfort in that.”

“I do.” He replied quietly.

She drank in silence at the edge of the bed, until sleep found her. When she woke in the morning, curled at the foot of the bed, she was covered in her own comforter. The room smelled musky, like old sweat, cologne, and wet dog.

But John and the Dog were gone. Rei ignored the emptiness she felt, wondering if she’d ever see them again. Then she realized what that would mean, and hoped the two of them would not return to the Continental. That he would find a measure of peace, and a chance to grieve, a chance she might never have.


	2. Chapter 2

_Winston_

He didn’t enjoy enforcing the rules, even if it was part of the job, and even if it was necessary. But when Ms. Perkins broke the first rule of the Continental, Winston was honor bound, no, _determined_ to rid the earth of her.

If only he had been able to track her sooner—then Marcus might still be alive. Marcus was one of the old guard, like him. One of the few left from the glory days. 

Technically, it wasn’t his place to take sides. But he couldn’t stay silent with the death of an old friend. So he called John, and now Viggo was dead. Consequences. And more consequences yet unseen. A risk he took and relished, just to know Marcus was avenged.

He knew his fondness for certain company was a true weakness. He thought he had killed that part of him in his decades of climbing the ranks, sometimes over the bodies of his predecessors and would-be usurpers. His survival, his stewardship of this very kingdom depended on it. And yet, it was like trying to cut out his beating heart, the very organ that kept him alive.

He sat in the lounge, the fireplace lit, the room empty. It was barely dawn, the first rays of light just coming in through the windows, bathing the room in a pale glow. He sipped his coffee, waiting for John Wick.

No small detail escaped Winston when it came to his hotel. He made sure of it. When he returned late in the evening, Charon had been eager to tell him of the Baba Yaga’s successful return, as well as his overnight accommodations in a certain young woman’s room.

He was surprised by that. John was a private man, and not one to rest easy in the company of strangers. And Rei.. Thoughts of that young, grief-wrecked doctor inevitably turned to thoughts of her mother, Lee Sun. 

Another weakness. It didn’t help that the girl looked so much like her mother. The same dark almond shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and delicate frame. She was beautiful, but so quiet, so reserved, people hardly noticed her. She lacked the confidence he remembered in his beloved Sun. She was so haunted, so guarded.

A primitive part of him wanted to protect her. But he knew it wasn’t possible. Innocence could not be preserved in this world.

“Winston.”

He motioned for the disheveled man to sit. John was wearing a tattered and stained white shirt, under a dirty, rumpled suit. But his voice sounded strong, and his wounds were neatly stitched under the holes in his clothes.

“Jonathon.”

He waited as the man sat slowly across from him, a cautiously neutral look on his face. 

“Coffee?”

“No thanks.”

Winston took his time, taking a long sip from his own cup. John didn’t quite squirm, but he didn’t look comfortable either, his feet shifting under the table.

“You asked to see me?” 

“I did. I trust your business has been.. satisfactorily concluded?”

“It has.”

“I’m sorry about Marcus.” 

“Yes.” John’s face was almost impassive, but Winston noticed the subtle darkening of his expression. There was still raw anger there. The rage behind that still veneer ran deep.

“He deserved better. But there are always consequences, John. Always.”

The younger man turned to him, his black eyes brimming with anger and sadness. “It’s over. I’m done.”

Winston scoffed. He wasn’t sure if he was stubborn, or just plain naive. “Do you really believe that? After the carnage you’ve inflicted on this city.. You think it’s that easy, to plunge into the depths of this cesspool, and come out clean on the other side.”

“It doesn’t matter, Winston. I’m retired.” His look was iron, more Baba Yaga than John.

Winston chuckled, setting down his cup to scrutinize the war-battered man before him. “If you say so John..” He leaned in, his face growing serious. “About your accommodations last night..”

John bristled ever so slightly. Winston smiled with the satisfaction of seeing him looking guilty, like a cat caught in the cream. 

“It’s frowned upon for hotel employees to _entertain_ overnight guests..”

“It wasn’t like that. She was treating me.”

“Of course she was.” He ignored the glower aimed at his direction. “And you know the location of all of our Doctors in this city. Yet you went out of your way to come back here.”

“She’s a good doctor.”

“Yes, she is.” Winston agreed softly. “And I would appreciate it if you followed the rules, so she can remain in my employ, and under my protection.” He gave John a stern look. “You know better.”

He received a stiff nod in response. But a look of hesitation flickered over his face. Hesitation. Winston couldn’t hide his surprise. It was not a look often found on John Wick.

“Why does she need your protection?”

Winston measured the man quietly, from his earnest black eyes, to the large hands resting on torn pant legs, the knuckles on his fingers bloody and scabbed. _Retired, indeed._

“I suppose you haven’t heard of the Marunouchi massacre, with you being away for so long.”

“No.. But that would be Yakuza territory.”

Winston nodded, uneasy with the idea of John taking an interest in this. He rarely took interest in the affairs of strangers. And as much as he respected and cared for his friend, tragedy walked in his very shadow.

“To be brief.. 47 Yakuza were all but executed by Ayumu Yamada’s successor. Only Rei escaped.”

John frowned at him. “She’s Yakuza?”

“Of course not.” The very idea seemed preposterous, and he watched as John nodded in agreement. They had an instinct for who belonged in this underbelly, and Rei was not one of them. “She’s Ayumu’s illegitimate daughter.”

“Loose ends then.”

Winston nodded. “It’s usually the way of things, when a seat at the High Table hangs in the balance.”

John nodded in grim agreement. But to Winston’s surprise, he wasn’t finished. “Why are _you_ protecting her?”

He felt caught off-guard, vulnerable under that piercing, suspicious gaze. Then it dawned on him why John was so keen on these questions. He chuckled to himself, the irony of the situation sinking in. “You have a soft-spot for the innocent that’s likely to get you killed, John.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“But I did.” He smiled as the man’s quizzical expression. “I suffer the same affliction.” Ever gloomy and contemplative, John sunk back in his seat. 

“It’s probably why I like you.”

The younger man returned a sardonic smile. “I’m still retired.”

“Of course you are, John.” He offered his hand, and John took it as he stood from his seat. “Until our next meeting.”

“Goodbye, Winston.”  
  
He watched him walk towards the hotel lobby. But he knew he would return, and New York would burn again.

***

He made good on his promise for exactly one week. Winston had heard the rumors, that John had stolen back his muscle car and forged a kind of peace with Abram Tarasov, the Russian mob’s new leader. 

It seemed like New York would settle down, rebuild from the hurricane that had blown through named John Wick. Then there were whispers of the Camorra arriving in New York, and Winston knew it couldn’t be good.

Santino D’Antonio was an ambitious second son of the Camorra. He was the spare, not the heir, and it was known widely how much he resented it. He also held a very specific marker. Winston knew there was only one reason why he had flown in from Italy, exactly one week after John had come out of retirement.

What he didn’t expect was John’s outright refusal to honor the marker. He knew the second rule under the table—all markers must be honored. 

So when he sat at his terrace, inspecting a new shipment of coins with the Mint Master, he was not phased by the battered figure standing at his doorway, demanding answers of him without a proper greeting.

“Where is he.”

Winston sighed, wondering what the consequences would be this time, and who else would be steamrolled in the path of John Wick’s revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

_John_

“Where is he.”

His ears were still ringing, and he felt the sting of raw cuts on his back on the windy roof-top terrace. This was Winston’s favorite spot in the hotel, and it was easy to see why. It was an airy garden, filled with greek bronze statues, marble fountains, and a giant fireplace facing the magnificent cityscape. This was his throne room.

His entire body was sore, reasonable, considering he had been blasted through his back window hours earlier. He ignored it. It was easy to, with the blood pounding his ears, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but he was used to pain. Rage kept him focused, untired. Rage kept him alive.

“Thank you my friend, beautiful work.” Winston ignored him, shaking hands with his companion, and ushering him towards the doors. When the doors to the terrace closed, he turned his icy blue eyes on him. The look on his face was exasperated, incredulous. 

“What are you doing Jonathon?

“He burned my house down.” He reminded himself that Winston was his friend, one of the few allies he had left.

“You rejected his marker, you’re lucky he stopped there. What the hell were you thinking, giving a marker to a man like Santino D’Antonio?” John didn’t like his tone. Like he was lecturing a child.

“It was the only way I could get out.” His thoughts immediately flickered to Helen, and his rage subsided, softening as he remembered her warm eyes, her soft smile. Winston could judge him all he wanted, with that withering look he wore so well. But he would have given Santino a hundred markers if that was what it took to be with her. 

“Oh, you call _this_ out. What did you think was going to happen? What did you expect? Did you really think this day was never going to come, hm?” Winston gestured to the table, and John felt himself automatically moving towards it, still coming to grips with what had happened that night. His only thoughts on the long walk to the Continental were of finding Santino and killing him with his bare hands. But Winston’s cool authority was like a splash of ice water hitting his face, waking him up to the reality of things. 

Winston seemed to sense a change in him, because the disapproving look on his face disappeared. In its place was concern. 

“What does he want you to do?” He asked calmly. 

“I didn’t ask. I just said no.” John sat, feeling more than a little sheepish. He had almost forgotten about that part.

Winston sighed, shaking his head. John bristled, sensing another lecture. “Two rules that cannot be broken, Jonathon. No blood on Continental grounds, and every marker must be honored. Now while my judgement comes in the form of excommunicado, the high table demand a more severe outcome if their traditions are refused.”

He knew all this, but he was grasping at straws. All he ever wanted was a chance to come to terms with Helen’s death, if that was even possible. It still stunned him to realize she was gone. His heart clenched in pain, a pain that no amount of anger seemed to dull. He looked at Winston, already knowing the answer. But he had to ask. “I have no choice?”

“You dishonor the marker, you die. You kill the holder of the marker, you die. You run, you die. This is what you agreed to Jonathon. Do what the man asks. Be free.” 

Freedom. He considered his options. It wasn’t the process of dying he feared, nor the pain and the labor of violence. He feared what came after death. Of being unable to meet Helen in the afterlife, and knowing, if there was such a place as heaven and hell, he would be torn from her again. And if there was no afterlife, he feared non-existence, the idea of being unable to remember her, cherish the memory of their happiness, and the feeling of being utterly loved. He felt his insides wrench with a twisting pain. He turned away from Winston, embarrassed by his sudden show of weakness. 

Winston continued, as if he didn’t notice his discomfort. “...Then if you want to go after him, burn his house down, be my guest. But until then…”

He looked at Winston, feeling a surge of purpose again. He was not interested in burning down Santino’s house. He did not believe in an eye for an eye, because he did not bother with exacting equal vengeance. He did exactly what his feelings compelled him to do. It was in his nature, whether that emotion was love or hatred. “Rules.”

“Exactly rules. Without them we live with the animals.” He watched with silent understanding, as Winston picked up his bone china teacup, and took a dainty sip. 

He took the piece of paper Winston slid towards him. It simply read, “The New Modern NYC.” He took it and left, not bothering to say goodbye.

***

The Dog was not in the lobby. He frowned, looking up at the Concierge desk, where Charon was busy on the phone. The animal was impressively obedient from the moment he found him, it was unusual for him not to be waiting. He watched as the Concierge nodded in his direction, and as if sensing his confusion, pointed towards the lounge. With a sense of unease, he made his way towards the room, and spotted the Dog immediately.

He was lying on a stuffed loveseat by the fireplace, sprawled over the lap of the Doctor, tongue lolling in pure bliss as the woman scratched his ears. He froze by the doorway, remembering Winston’s last warning, the icy protectiveness he exhibited when talking about her. 

He couldn’t deny he had sought her out. There was something about her that was comforting to him, those soulful black eyes, the non-judgment in her serious face, too grave for someone her age. It disturbed him to think these thoughts so soon after his beloved’s death, but he couldn’t deny his aching loneliness was grasping for comfort.

She looked beautiful in the firelight. She was smiling, a rare look of happiness on her face, usually so reserved, guarded. He remembered her gentle hands, the look of worry as she tended to his wounds, and her earnest conversations with him. He swallowed, angry at himself for letting his loneliness get the better of him, his childish need to ease the pain of his loss with anything beautiful and innocent, anyone remotely resembling his Helen. 

He found his feet, and strode to the fireplace. She looked up at him, startled, but not afraid. She returned her gaze to fire, her hands never leaving the Dog’s head. The sheepish animal thumped his tail, as if sensing his master was displeased.

“I hoped to never see you two again.” She sounded sad, and it confused him.

“Not my choice.” He stooped towards the chair, and patted the animal, letting him know he wasn’t angry. The pitbull crawled towards him, licking his hands happily.

“There are whispers of the Camorra.” He watched as her eyes met his, a glint of fear in those dark orbs. He resisted the primitive urge to touch her hand, to comfort her. 

“News travels fast.” He offered her a sardonic smile, wanting to see her smile again. She didn’t.

“You’re bleeding.” Her eyes were on his back, and he looked down to where she was looking. A few spots of blood stained his white shirt. He stiffened, as her small hands lifted his shirt at the back. “Glass?”

“It’s nothing.” He pulled his shirt down firmly, removing her hands gently from his back. Her fingers were ice, even sitting so close to the fire.

She frowned at him, but seemed to give up. “I suppose you’ll be headed to Rome soon.”

He shrugged, realizing he still didn’t know what it was Santino even wanted. He didn’t want to know, but he had to complete the marker. It was only then he could exact his revenge on the bastard. His fists clenched involuntarily, relishing the thought. He felt her eyes on him, studying him in silence.

“May I borrow your Dog, until you return?” She was looking down at the brown mound, scratching at his belly, the animal’s legs kicking involuntarily in the air. He couldn’t fully see her face, but he could sense her sadness. He didn’t like it. He felt a need to stop it, an almost chivalrous need he didn’t understand.

“I would like that.”

She turned up her face, and he noted a suspicious glimmer in her eyes, and a small smile. “Good luck, John. We’ll see you soon.”

He felt himself returning the smile, but it felt strange as he walked away. He was not used to exercising those muscles in his face. As he walked towards the Museum, his confused thoughts faded away, and his mind bent towards a singular purpose--finding Santino and figuring out what he wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

_Rei_

She was smitten, there was no denying that. The Dog woke her up almost every morning at 6:00 AM with a slobbery kiss to her face, and a gentle nudge of urgency. And unlike most mornings, she woke with a smile on her face, trying to push the 50 pound dog off of her chest.

She seldom went outside. It wasn’t just paranoia, there just wasn’t a reason for her to be outside. But as she walked the Dog around the block every morning, she noticed how beautiful New York in the late Autumn was, even in its starkness, all concrete jungle and bare trees. There was beauty in the sharp lines of the skyscrapers, the muted colors of the sky. It reminded her of John.

It had been a few days, but there was no news of his whereabouts. She imagined him in Rome, the sun on his shoulders, walking through the ancient ruins like a mythical gladiator. The thought was ridiculous, of course. He was a creature of the night, sent to silence those whose luck had run out.

 _Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat._ The phrase was often in her mind, randomly as she went through the motions of her day. She found herself repeating it, like a mantra or a prayer. She wasn’t even sure for whose benefit, herself, or John? 

She was drawn to him. That was for certain, and she found herself hoping fervently for his return, though the thought of being parted from the Dog was almost unbearable. She wondered if Winston would allow her to adopt. Winston was a fastidious man. She remembered the sharp arch of his brow when he saw her smuggling the Dog into the elevator after a nighttime walk. It was probably wishful thinking. 

She watched the animal fondly, as he balanced on three legs, peeing acrobatically on a crumpled paper bag by an alleyway. She had forgotten the pleasure of being treated with unbridled affection, to be touched by another creature with love. It surprised her that after everything that had happened, she still had these _needs_. As if she hadn’t learned her lesson. The Dog tugged at his lead, done with the bag. She welcomed the interruption, and walked on.

They finished their loop, and Rei recognized the familiar triangular entrance of the Continental from a few blocks down. The wind picked up and she shivered, feeling the chill under her wool coat and gray scarf. With coffee on her mind, she walked briskly towards the hotel, but suddenly felt a prickle on the back of her neck. An instinct that warned of danger—one she never ignored now.

She turned her head slowly, watching from her peripheral vision as a figure paused a few feet behind her. Feigning nonchalance, she bent down to pat the Dog on the head. She glanced quickly at the man behind her. A pair of brilliant green eyes stared right into hers, a crooked smile on the handsome man’s face. 

She stood, turning to face him, unsure if she should make a break for the hotel. But the man was still smiling, nor was there any advertent threat in his posture. It was something in his smile, and those vibrant eyes, that she didn’t like. He was handsome, a mop of curly dark hair framing his sculpted face, and he was rich—dressed in a beautiful navy suit and matching overcoat.

“I was admiring your lovely dog, _Signora._ ”

His accent was a silky Italian, though she didn’t know enough about the country to place what region. 

“Thank you, but he’s not mine.” She took a few steps towards the hotel, but he stepped closer, closing the gap between them. He bent down, putting his hand on the Dog’s head, patting it and whispering some kind of endearment in Italian. 

“What a pity. A man would pay a small fortune for an animal as magnificent as this one.” He straightened, looking at her meaningfully. “It’s not impossible for a dog to escape from his leash.. happens everyday in this city, a common tragedy.” His hand closed around the leash, and Rei froze.

She jerked it out of his hands, more angry than afraid. She watched as those eyes turned cold, and she felt an icy shiver down her spine. The coincidence was not lost on her, that John was entangled with the Camorra, and suddenly an Italian mafioso was very interested in his dog.

“That would be a great tragedy, considering the owner of this dog.” She smiled at the man’s slight sneer. “Excuse me, _sir._ ” She brushed past him and ran the last few yards towards the hotel, not looking back.

She knew there would be trouble today, but she had no idea how much. The Dog was locked safely in her bedroom, but a lingering feeling of unease followed her throughout the day.

***

It was late afternoon, and the sun was already setting. The fading light cast a surreal orange glow on the first floor of the hotel as she walked towards the lounge, in search of Winston. She had just finished taking the Dog for a walk, he was pulling eagerly on the leash, ready for dinner. 

Her mind had been in a fog all day, troubled by the strange events of the morning. Then there were the rumors--the hotel was buzzing with gossip. There were whispers that the head of the Camorra, Gianna D’Antonio was dead. She couldn’t shake the feeling this had something to do with John.

Lately, Winston was nowhere to be found. He seemed unusually busy, no longer present in the lounge, or at his table at the club. And the hotel itself seemed busier, full of strange faces. She glanced down the stairs into the lounge, surprised to find it almost empty. But she spotted Winston at the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration over a glass of red wine. The Dog following closely behind, she made her way quickly downstairs.

The look he gave her as her footsteps fell on the last step froze her in her tracks. His icy blue eyes held warning, a mute plea for her to retreat. She took a step backwards, but a vaguely familiar silky voice broke the silence.

“Ah, Dr. Lee.”

In her haste to find Winston, she didn’t notice the lone figure standing there. Even the way he stood looked aristocratic. His statuesque face was marred by a long cut on his temple, and another on his cheek. He smiled at her, that same smugness on his face that made her blood boil irrationally, and the pit of her stomach roil with nerves.

“I mistook you for a common dog walker. I apologize, _signora._ ”

The Dog whined at her feet, protesting his rumbling belly. She gave the Italian a nod, turning to go back to her room. A firm hand closed over her wrist and pulled her down the stairs. She heard Winston’s steady voice call out.  
  
“Mr. D’Antonio, just what do you think you’re doing?”

 _D’Antonio._ The name of the ruling family of the Camorra. She took in his expression, the arrogance, the air of imperviousness. She felt the expensive fabric of his sleeve touching her wrist as his fingers gripped her, almost bruising. And she knew. This was the younger brother, the new heir to the High Table. He seemed to recognize the understanding coming over her face, because he smiled wider, slowly releasing her.

“I’m in need of a Doctor’s services.” He gave Winston a baiting look, daring him to deny him. 

Winston looked conflicted, but he nodded at her sharply. She motioned for a waiter, and instructed him to bring her a first aid kit from the lobby. Taking a calm breath, she walked the Dog to the fireplace, and settled him by the armchairs. The air was charged, and even though there weren’t many people there, she could sense the heavy feeling of expectation.

The first aid kit arrived almost simultaneously with a plate of duck confit, the oily, savory smell wafting through the air. The Dog whined, and she patted his head, hoping he would calm down. He settled, like the good boy he was. She walked towards his table, as D’Antonio picked up a small forkful of duck lardon, and placed it delicately in his mouth. She reached for the kit, opening it before him, removing antiseptic and sterile cloth.

He chewed delicately, savoring the flavor of the duck fat and taking a sip of his wine. When he was finished, she patted the cut on his forehead with antiseptic, trying not to look pleased as he winced.

“You’re a long way from Tokyo, aren’t you Doctor?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, verbal or otherwise. She focused on disinfecting the cuts with a cotton bud, and applying salve carefully on his face. He seemed undeterred, studying her with those cold green eyes.

“How’s your brother doing lately?”

She was fuming inside, but she forced herself not to show it. She moved her attention to the second cut on his cheek, cleaning it with a fresh cotton bud.

“No.. I should have given my condolences for the fiancé, first.”

She froze, unable to hide her anger and shock. Her dark eyes found his pale green ones, and she could not contain herself. The cotton bud in her finger snapped over her clenched hand. He smiled, pleased with her reaction.   
  
The massacre was common knowledge, but that private detail was not. She couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She sat, feeling the weakness in her legs, never taking her eyes away from D’Antonio. 

He chuckled darkly, cutting a large piece of duck, spearing it with fat, and popping the sumptuous morsel in his mouth. The sound his mouth made as he chewed made her want to strike him. 

She reminded herself who he was. He was the head of the Camorra, a man with a seat at the High Table. She forced herself to look at him, and remember he was a Titan, and she was nothing. She cast her eyes down, forcing down tears of helpless anger.

“Rei, you can go now.” Winston's gentle voice snapped her out of the near breakdown. He was standing by the table, his hand closing over her shoulder. Thankful for his intervention, she stood up only to be forced back down.

D’Antonio was standing, his fork holding hand over her shoulder. “I’m not done with her, Winston.” His voice was a soft whisper by her ear, and she smelled the strong scent of red wine and duck. She knew he was drunk, from the way he swayed slightly, his hand steadying himself on her shoulder.

Under that veneer or cold anger she recognized his irrational fear. The heir to the High Table was afraid, and it didn’t take very long for her to realize what he feared.

The Dog whined sharply, and she heard the scramble of his legs on the wood floors as he took off towards the stairs. The thump of heavy footsteps alerted her to the presence of a tall dark figure, limping slowly down the steps.

There was a gun held loosely in John’s hand. They all noticed it, and from the horrified expression on Winston’s face, she knew the casual way it dangled by his thigh did not make him any less dangerous. She felt D’Antonio’s hand tighten on her shoulder as he approached. 

He walked slowly, his steps labored, his face downcast. There were cuts and bruises underneath the sweat slicked black hair cascading down his face. His eyes were terrifyingly cold. She almost did not recognize them. He didn’t even seem to see her, or Winston. His black eyes were focused on the man behind her.

“Jonathon.. Just walk away.” Winston’s voice was soft, but there was a clear note of unease. John did not look at him.

“Yes, Jonathan, walk away.” D’Antonio mocked, but he did not move away from her. 

John raised the gun, the black barrel pointed straight at D’Antonio, and consequently, at her.

D’Antonio’s confidence melted away. His arm was now at her throat, dragging her backwards towards his chest, choking her. She tugged vainly on the arm at her neck, gasping for breath. Then there was a soft click, and the sharp press of metal against her temple.

“Stop moving, or I’ll blow your brains out all over this ugly carpet.” His voice was a shaky whisper by her ear, the stench of wine gagging her.

Winston was looking at her, and in his eyes was a look she’d never seen before. A mixture of regret, panic, and fear. John had not lowered his gun, and she wondered who would be the first to shoot.

“Gentleman, please.” He was begging. Winston was begging. “Honor the first rule.”

“Tell him to put down the gun.” D’Antonio’s voice was almost shrill. Rei felt him tremble behind her, and she knew he was losing control. A small voice inside her whispered. _True Titans do not know fear._

“John, put down the gun.” Winston was now facing John, his voice still pleading. The sound was so unnatural to her, that she would have gasped in surprise if not for the tightness of the arm pressing on her throat. “John.. Please. She can’t breathe..”

John suddenly looked at her, as if recognizing her presence in the room for the first time. To her shock, his arm faltered, the barrel of the gun falling slightly. “Tell him to pull the contract.” His voice was a low growl.

“Santi… He’s fulfilled your marker. Just pull the contract.” Winston sounded like a parrot, the desperation in his voice filling the room too loudly. She felt lightheaded, the lack of oxygen to her brain starting to get to her. Her legs buckled, she was struggling to stand. 

D’Antonio’s arms loosened, as he felt her collapse against him. She gulped in air gratefully, gasping and coughing as she felt air rush into her lungs. Winston’s arm reached out to her, but that was a mistake.

A sharp blow from the pistol struck her temple, and the arm was back against her neck. He dragged her back into the corner of the room, snarling. “Get back, Winston.”

Something trickled down her forehead, to the corner of her lips. She tasted blood, and she was no longer afraid. Only angry. Angry at her helplessness. Angry as she put together the pieces. _A marker. A contract. Gianna D’Antonio, dead._

John lowered his weapon. She would have been shocked, but she was too much in her own head, an idea forming in her mind. A dangerous idea, born of equal parts desperation and rage. Born of a desire to avenge herself, to unmask these men for what they were. Not Titans, not Gods, but mortal men. Cowards, who did not deserve to live.

She thought of her brother, as she bit down ruthlessly on the silk-suited arm by her face. She saw Ichiro’s cold eyes as he fired relentlessly at her retreating car, tires squealing on the rain-soaked highway. Her trembling blood soaked hands, none of of the blood hers.

D’Antonio howled, as her teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his inner arm, and blood poured in her mouth. The hand on his gun faltered, slipping from her head. She gripped it with both hands, pressed the firearm firmly against her collarbone, and jerked his fingers down on the trigger with her own.

The first shot barely missed her neck, the barrel burning the skin around her shoulder. The second shot was surer, and she ignored the blinding pain in her ear, as her left eardrum ruptured from the sound. 

Both shots went straight up into D’Antonio’s neck. She wasn’t a doctor for nothing. She knew precisely where his carotid was. As the man gurgled and fell away from her, she sat on the floor, her legs finally giving out.

“Rei.. What have you done.”   
  
She looked up at Winston’s stunned expression, opening her mouth to speak, then choking on blood. D’Antonio’s blood. She spit it out, disgusted, and shivered, suddenly overwhelmed by cold. A large, warm hand was on her neck. She flinched backwards, blinking slowly as her eyes focused on the dark figure knelt in front of her. She recognized those warm dark eyes, but not the conflicting emotions shining within.

John brushed her hair away from her neck, inspecting something, then brushing blood away from her temple. She flinched in pain. 

“Why did you do that?” His voice was quiet, but full of a dark emotion she couldn’t place.

She looked at him blankly, before the words spilled out of her, the same words that had been on her mind all day. “ _Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat._ The bold make their own fortune, John. _”_

The Dog whined at her feet, and she absently stroked his head. She might be dead tomorrow, but strangely she felt no regret.


	5. Chapter 5

_Winston_

He was thankful for Charon, who had come running when the first shot rang out. The Concierge had the mind to lock down the lounge and take down the names of the witnesses. Santino’s body, growing colder by the minute, had been covered hastily in a sheet and dragged down to the furnace room. But not before attracting the attention of everyone on the first floor, staring silently as room service wheeled his body to service elevators, crumpled over a silver service cart, the only vessel available on short notice. There would be hell to pay, not that the two fools sitting at his bar realized it.

He glared at them, the pair of them, sitting quietly, looking for all the world like two world-weary strangers commiserating. The bloodied idiot to his left, too brash, too confident to care or fully realize what was about to happen. And the pale simpleton, nursing a full glass of brandy, grave and accepting, as if what had transpired was an unavoidable accident. 

Rei was looking at him with a sad kind of embarrassment. The blood from the cut on her temple had crusted, but a pool of blood spotted her white blouse. Her little hands grasped the snifter of brandy before her, but she didn’t drink. The front of her neck was bruised, and he bit down on his urge to call the Doctor. She did not deserve his concern, not after _this_. She seemed to sense something in him, because her small white hand reached out to touch his clenched ones.

“Winston.. I’m sorry.” Her voice crackled in a raspy whisper. 

“I should have left you to your fate, when you came here begging for help.” 

He felt his heart weaken, as he watched her face turn down and stare sadly into her glass. “You are beyond my protection now.” He reached for his own glass and emptied it in one quick motion, barely registering the contents.

“I know. I’ll always be grateful to you.” The small hand squeezed, her fingers icy on his knuckles. She leaned in, her dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I was on borrowed time anyway, Win.”

He scoffed, snatching his hand away, still angry, but no longer sure if he was solely angry at the pathetic creature before him, or the anguish in his own weak heart. “Do you even know what’s coming, Rei?” He was not ashamed to be afraid. There had never been an incident like this before, not even in his long history with the hotel. “Death is the easiest outcome. No.. They will want to make an _example_ out of you. They’re going to punish you.”

The young woman was still. Not even a shiver. He secretly admired her for it, even if it was incredibly naive of her. “I was only defending myself.” Her voice was quiet, but he sensed the steeliness behind it. He scoffed.

“A man has died on these hallowed grounds. I’ve counted not one, but _two_ exit wounds on the back of his neck. And not just _any_ man. A man at the High Table.” Winston reached behind him, grabbing a bottle of scotch, and sloshing it into his tumbler with little care.

“What choice did she have?” 

Winston glared at John, furious that he even dared to speak. John returned his gaze, a glint of challenge in his dark eyes.

“You don’t speak.” Winston swallowed, trying to calm himself as he choked on his own anger. “You started this entire mess--what were you thinking storming in here, looking for all the world like you were going to shoot Santino in my hotel?”

“I _was_ going to shoot him.” John didn’t flinch, even as Winston slammed his glass down on the bar, sloshing scotch everywhere.

“I warned you Jonathon. I warned you many times, about the consequences of your vengeance.” He was shouting, but he didn’t care. “I advised you, begged you to follow the rules. And now..”

He faltered, unsure if he wanted to continue. He grabbed what was left of the scotch, and took a sip, trying to calm himself. “You’ve made it impossible for me to keep a promise, to the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

He ignored the stunned look Rei gave him, choosing instead to focus intensely on John. The man sat quietly digesting his words, the glass of bourbon in his hands halfway to his mouth.

“You think you’re the only one who’s suffered. You’re a selfish, pompous, imbecile, John.” He fixed his icy blue eyes on him, watching the slow anger rising in the younger man’s face. “If she suffers, I place the blame solely on you.”

“Winston.. That’s unfair.” 

He ignored Rei’s raspy voice, never taking his eyes off of John, who’s twisted face was staring relentlessly at him. “Don’t even think about running, _Baba Yaga_. You leave her in this mess, and I will personally hunt you.” He smiled, relishing bitterly the effect he was having on the normally taciturn man. 

“Winston..”  
  
He ignored the girl as she reached out to him. He left the bar and climbed the stairs leading out of the lounge. There was little time to prepare for the Adjudicator’s visit. The High Table was coming, and he had his work cut out for him. 


	6. Chapter 6

_John_

He hadn’t thought about Gianna since he left Rome. But now that the fog of his rage had lifted, and Santino lay dead several floors below him, he couldn’t stop seeing her face. Her soft brown curls, sweeping across her delicate shoulders. The way her eyes glittered as she looked back at him, moments before slitting her own wrists.

He remembered how small her hand felt in his, as he felt her life slipping away, her head nodding into the water. He was cursed. Viggo had been right, when he said he was lying to himself, pretending that the past held no sway over his future. Everywhere he turned, John saw death. Forced by cruel fate, many times by his own hand, but ever present. Ever waiting. 

He loved Helen, and he had held almost nothing back from her. She probably knew him better than anyone. But he never told her about this part of him. Deep down he knew she could never love the _Baba Yaga._ He hated that name. She was too pure, too good. He wouldn’t have been able to go on living, knowing she despised him. 

He lied to her for five years, and to himself. Pretending that as he closed the door on this life, he was no longer that guy. So far, every attempt to return to that lie had failed. But he never expected to fail at killing the man who stood in his way. Perhaps he had seen too many women die around him lately, but when he realized he couldn’t get his man without harming Rei, he had lost his resolve. And now he couldn’t get Gianna’s words out of his head. 

_What would your Helen think about you, hm?_

She was sitting silently next to him. Her glass of brandy was half full, her hands resting on the bar. Her pale face was still spattered with Santino’s blood. They had been sitting like this in silence, for the better part of an hour.

He never saw it coming, what had happened. One moment, she was terrified and choking. Then he saw the look in her eye, an intention he recognized instantly. In that moment, he knew even before she pulled the trigger that Santi was likely a dead man. What he didn’t understand was why.

“I’m sorry for all this.”

He nearly choked on his next sip of bourbon, as her raspy voice broke the long silence. He swallowed hastily, turning his eyes back on her. She was looking down at her feet, her hands resting in her lap.

“This wasn’t your doing.” He paused, thinking over his poor choice of words. “You killed him, but it’s my fault you did.”

She was looking at him now, her expressive eyes fixed on him. There was a defiant tilt in her chin, a shadow of the look she had on her face as she bit down on Santino’s arm.

“I didn’t do it for you.” Her voice cracked, and he reached for a pitcher of water across the bar. He poured her a glass, and watched as she took a long drink.

Her vocal chords were inflamed, and he suspected her left eardrum had ruptured. She had taken a harsh blow to the head, there was an ugly bruise forming there. If she was in any pain, she didn’t give any indication. The woman was proud. He hadn’t noticed that before, shadowed as she was by grief and fear.

“This is your first time, isn’t it?”

She gave him a questioning glance, and he continued, pausing to refill his bourbon. “Killing someone.” He took her silence as an affirmative. 

He couldn’t remember his first time. It has been so long ago, an act of necessity, in those days when he was not much more than a boy, struggling to survive to the next day. It got easier the more he did it, until it eventually became a reflex, then an instinct. Was it an addiction now, as Santi had claimed?

“Why?”

Her eyes darted around his face, as if trying to ascertain the true meaning of his question. 

“Why him?” He watched her dark eyes widen with understanding.

She took a deep breath, clearing a rattle in her throat. He noticed the way her chest expanded, and the color rose in her cheeks. He couldn’t help feeling a little mesmerized, as he watched her back straighten and her voice carry with conviction.

“ _Sic semper tyrannis._ Thus always to tyrants.” Her eyes glittered, and he was reminded again of Gianna. “I once let a man like him live, because I was too afraid to dirty my hands.” She lifted her glass of brandy and took a healthy drink. “I’ve regretted that moment to my bones, ever since.”

He watched her eyes fill with tears, and felt the traitorous ache of a twinge in his heart. He ignored it, focusing on the glass in his hand as she continued.

“I know the rules and the consequences, John. But I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not if I died a thousand deaths.”

He hated how much he agreed with her. How his brain told him to walk away, but his heart had already turned away from reason. 

“You don’t owe me anything. Winston’s just not himself.” Her cold little hands were on his arm. “I won’t hold anything against you, if you walk away.”

He turned to look at her, trying to hide the conflict within him. Something in his face must have startled her, because she took her hands off of him, like he had burned her. He leaned closer, watching as her eyes darted around his face in confusion, but she didn’t flinch away.

“I have to go home. But I promise, I’ll come back.”

He held her gaze, until she nodded slowly. Something in her expression compelled him to touch her, reassure her. His hand reached out to tuck a stray hair, stuck to the blood crusted on her cheek, behind her ear.

He could tell she wanted to say something. But he was too overwhelmed, too tired to hear it. He slapped a hand to his thigh, and the Dog stood from his place on the ground by their feet. He hobbled up the steps of the lounge, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Both halves of him had come to the same decision, there was no turning back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adjudicator is non-binary, so I used they/their/them. I also love the actor, Asia Kate Dillon. So cool. Hope they return in JW4!
> 
> Thank you Anonymous1864 for commenting on the work, and also to the people who have left kudos. I enjoy writing this fic (on my cellphone at night when I can’t sleep), but your feedback is extra appreciated motivation. That and I love the John Wick series so much!

_Rei_

She didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t just the physical pain. Her mind raced even as she felt nothing—numbness in her emotions, as her brain processed what had actually happened.

She had killed a man. Most of her entire adult life, she had devoted to the study and practice of saving lives. She wanted to become a doctor since she was a child. Every life she saved, every person she treated had given her a sense of purpose and hope. That part of her had long since died, and she only now realized it.

She didn’t regret killing Santino. The thought chilled her, as she tossed in her bed, in her too small room. She wondered if it was in her blood, this lack of remorse for such a terrible act. But men like Santino D’Antonio did not deserve sympathy. She had seen those cruel eyes before, and what followed when men like that took power. She had done the world a favor.

It wasn’t fear for her life that was keeping her awake. There were worse things than death. Like crawling down 15 floors under a hail of bullets, watching your friends die before you. Seeing the man you love walking back in the line of fire, so you could escape.

When Santino fell, she felt powerful. For a brief moment, she was no longer the helpless runaway, afraid of her own shadow. That split second she tasted the satisfaction of dispensing justice, absolution, a brief respite from the guilt and the horror of her daily life. She hungered to feel that kind of peace again.

It was a cruel hope. The slaying of this man on Continental grounds had dire consequences, and she was lucky Winston hadn’t dragged her out of the hotel and had her killed. He couldn’t protect her for long, and she knew death, or something worse, was coming. 

As she lay awake, waiting for dawn, she couldn’t help clinging to that frail hope, that she would survive what was coming. That she would live another day, and right another wrong. 

Somehow, that hope was tied to a pair of dark, resolute eyes, she kept seeing them in her mind. He had promised that he would come back, and from what she knew of John Wick, she had no doubt he would return. But to what end, and why? He owed her nothing.

She remembered the way his fingers had lingered on her cheek, and the strange intensity in his expression that had sent her heart racing. It wasn’t from fear. It was something else, a long dormant feeling that she didn’t dare give a name to.

***

She was ready by dawn, and though she hadn’t slept she didn’t feel tired. She wasn’t sure of what to do, sitting on her made bed, her nerves pooling in her belly. What did one do when they broke the number one rule of the house? She wasn’t exactly a prisoner, but it didn’t mean she was welcome to meander around the hotel like a favored guest. 

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Charon was at the door. He smiled at her brilliantly, already dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie, his usual uniform. He was an enigma to her, aloof but always kind, never changing. He led her upstairs through Winston’s massive three story penthouse, then up a flight of marble steps leading to his private terrace. Before the doors , he offered a gentle smile.   
  
“It’s been a privilege working with you, Dr. Lee.” He stuck out his hand, and she took it, a foreboding feeling coming over her.

Winston was sitting at his table. The massive marble fireplace was lit behind him, and a tea service of fine blue and gold bone china was laid out. She reached to take the oolong tea he offered as she sat across the table. 

She remembered the flurry of emotions on his face yesterday. The way he had pleaded, begged, and raged. So unlike the man before her, his face carefully blank, his smile polite. Winston was all business. It was a cold feeling, seeing her friend disappear and the Titan of New York emerge.

She remembered what he said about her mother. _The only woman he ever loved._ She understood why he had helped her without question. Why she had felt a fatherly sense of fondness from him. She wished she was feeling that now, as his icy blue eyes measured her from behind his gold rimmed teacup.

“The Adjudicator is coming today.”

She didn’t know how to respond. She sipped the oolong gratefully. It was a cold morning, and the fire didn’t seem warm enough. 

“There will be an investigation.”

He must have noticed the confusion in her face, because he smiled. Somehow, it made him look colder.

“You’re wondering why you’re not dead already. Why you haven’t been declared excommunicado, and thrown in the streets for the wolves.” He took a long sip of his tea before answering. “Because I deemed it so.”

“Winston.. Is that wise?” From what little she knew about the High Table, their rules were absolute. Anyone who didn’t follow the rules of the table were considered the table’s enemies.

He chucked, a hint of fondness in his face. “I don’t think you can afford to be worried about me, my dear.” 

His eyes lingered on her forehead and her throat. She reached out to touch the bruises, feeling subconscious. He cleared his throat, putting down his cup.

“I called the Adjudicator here. I’ve asked them to make a judgment call.” He stood, pacing the table, almost talking to himself. “Blood was spilled on Continental grounds, that’s an unfortunate truth, but the rules fail to elucidate who is at fault. Your blood was spilled first.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Winston was trying to make an argument for her life, based on a flimsy premise. He must have loved her mother deeply, to risk so much on such a trivial argument, to the High Table no less.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but this is—-“

“I’m not a fool Rei, you’re probably going to die.” His voice cut across hers, cold and blunt. “Whether today, or tomorrow, or some years from now, you’ve set yourself on a path through your own regrettable actions.”

The look in his eyes softened, as he studied her face. She felt as if he was seeing through her, remembering something. Or someone. In a second, he was back to business.

“But if you want to live a while longer, I suggest you give them a reason to let you.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”

She did. Even when she gave her assent, Winston looked displeased with her. Under the cold mask, she sensed his anger, and something that felt close to fear. 

***

The Adjudicator arrived shortly before noon. Rei didn’t expect them to be so young. Their delicate elfin features, piercing green eyes, and hair buzzed to the scalp gave an impression of modernity. A long gold bar earring dangled from the left side of their ear, shaking slightly each time they spoke. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Perhaps someone like her father, a ruthless old dictator? Or like Santino, aristocratic, cruel and arrogant?

Sitting at Winston’s terrace, their black nails clicked on the teacup he offered. They sat, watching her inquisitively. They slipped a manila folder out of the leather satchel they carried, and placed it carefully on the table.

“Your name is Yamada Rei?”

The Adjudicator flipped through the papers in the folder, glancing up at her briefly. Their tone was clipped and authoritative.

“Rei Lee. Yamada is my father’s name.”

Those green eyes measured her keenly, before returning to the papers. “There’s not much here about you, Dr. Lee. Not much at all, to explain why you killed a member of the High Table.”

Winston cleared his throat, but the Adjudicator raised a hand, silencing him. “I remember what the manager told me over the phone. I’d like to hear from the doctor.”

“It was an accident.” The lie sounded hesitant, even to her ears. “Mr. D’Antonio grabbed me and threatened to kill me. I fought him.” She remembered the blood oozing in her mouth, and felt nauseous. “In our struggle, the gun went off.”

“Twice. In the neck.” The Adjudicator looked skeptical. “And you’re forgetting a few important details. Why did Mr. D’Antonio single you out? And what was John Wick’s involvement?”

“Mr. D’Antonio and I had met earlier that day. He tried to take Mr. Wick’s dog..” She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She took a long sip of tea. Her throat still felt sore.

The Adjudicator raised an eyebrow, a look of impatience on their face. “You forgot to mention Mr. Wick ran into the room with his weapon raised, with the intent to kill Santino D’Antonio.”

“I don’t know what his intention was.” Rei felt her voice rising, and she forced herself to calm down. “Mr. D’Antonio was drunk and violent. I fought him off, and the gun accidentally discharged.”

They did not look convinced. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking we don’t know anything about you. We know about Maruinouchi. We know why you’re hiding here, under his protection.” They jerked her head at Winston, not taking their eyes off her. Their voice was soft, but somehow more menacing. “We know you’ve been aiding Mr. Wick ever since he came out of retirement. You can tell me, Doctor. Did he ask you to kill Santino D’Antonio?”

Rei froze, shocked by the accusation. She could feel Winston’s eyes boring down on her, his intentions unknown to her. The Adjudicator continued, ignoring the silence.

“Blood has been spilled on these grounds, the blood of a newly instated member of the High Table. A life is owed.” She took a casual sip of her tea. “I am here to determine _whose_.”

“He didn’t ask me to kill anyone.” Her voice was small, carried away by the cold breeze blowing through the terrace. Winston was frowning. She felt his disapproving eyes on her.

“Very well.” The Adjudicator turned, looking at Winston for the first time during the conversation. “Where is Mr. Wick?”

Winston shook his head. “I had the mind to keep the perpetrator here, but I have no idea about Mr. Wick's whereabouts.”

The Adjudicator fixed Winston a frosty stare. Their lips tightened. “If he doesn’t return in an hour for questioning, have him declared excommunicado.”

Winston nodded firmly, but Rei noticed something in his face. The man did not have many tells, but she had learned to read the subtle cues in his expression. He was hiding something.

They stood, and Winston and Rei followed. “I have the names of other witnesses if you’d like to interview them..”

“No. I would like to see the body.”

“Of course. It grows colder by the minute.”

With a flick of his head, Winston motioned for her to go back to her room. Rei didn’t hesitate, her mind racing. 

***

She thought she was facing certain death, but nothing was turning out the way she anticipated.

With shaking hands she fumbled for the keycard to her door. It opened, to a tall figure standing behind her. She almost let out a scream, but a large hand quickly covered her mouth and pressed her against their chest.

She smelled the familiar scent of woody cologne. He released her slowly.

“John?”

He nodded, his dark eyes focusing on her with quiet intensity. He was dressed in a clean suit, the cuts on his face cleaned properly. She wondered vaguely if he had paid a visit to the Doctor in Chinatown. Then she remembered the Adjudicator’s words.

“They’re trying to pin this on you, John. You’ve got to talk to the Adjudicator now and set them straight.”

He studied her carefully, and she wished his expressions weren’t so unreadable. He was slow to respond, as usual.

“I know. The High Table’s men are posted at almost every exit. We have to run.”

“Run?

John pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was an old Nokia cellphone. “Winston warned me the interview wasn’t going well. This is plan B.”

“What was plan A..?”

John shook his head, motioning his head to the door. “There isn’t much time to explain. We need to go.”

“The Adjudicator is going to declare you excommunicado in an hour. You can’t run.”

John didn’t blink, as if he expected this outcome. He leaned towards her, his face earnest. “If we don’t get out of here, they’ll kill us both.” His voice was urgent, though there wasn’t a hint of fear.

“I promised I would come back. Now I’m promising you I’ll get us out of here.”

The way he was looking at her, was making her heart race again, stupidly. She ignored it. “What about Winston?”

She swore there was a twitch of a smile on his face when she said that. “Winston can take care of himself. He always has.”

She was out of excuses. More than that, her heart was beating wildly with hope. Hope in the form of a pair of dark relentless eyes, promising to help her.

  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

_John_

It didn’t take her long to gather her belongings, which were few, judging from the size of the sparsely furnished room. He wasn’t trying to spy, but it was a habit to be observant, no matter where he was. She rummaged through one dresser drawer, and removed two items--a necklace, and a ring. He watched, as she fumbled with the clasp around her neck, and shoved the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. The pendant was coin shaped, stamped with a strange looking flower. The ring was a simple gold band. She looked down at it, an almost reverent look on her face. He clenched his left hand, feeling the comforting weight of his own wedding band, a reminder of what he had loved, and lost.

She followed him wordlessly, as he walked swiftly outside into the hall and down the emergency stairwell. He didn’t have to look back to know she was following closely, her smaller, quicker steps echoing softly against the cement steps. He had to hurry. Winston warned him of his impending excommunicado, and once they realized the Doctor was gone, she would also be marked for death. 

He found Charon waiting for him in the restaurant’s cellars. The room had been cleared, but the raucous laughter of the kitchen staff above them and the aroma of a meaty stew filled the air. The Concierge motioned quietly to the pull out stairs leading to the side-walk outside.

“It has been an honor Mr. Wick.” The man whispered, holding out his hand. John shook it, noting the look of concern in the normally complacent man’s eyes.

They climbed out into the cold air, and the overcast afternoon. The clouds threatened rain. He felt a pressing anxiety tightening in his chest. He was used to danger, and on his own he feared almost nothing. But the footsteps behind him reminded him of his obligation to protect the one who followed him. A Doctor, the opposite of what he was. He moved faster.

“John, wait.” The woman was almost jogging, and he felt a hand tug on the back of his suit. He slowed, but did not stop. “Where are we going?”

“To a theater.” He scanned the streets, noting the congestion of traffic. There was nothing for it, they had to run, even if it took them a good 40 minutes. She paced beside him, but did not ask further questions. He was grateful, as he navigated through the tangle of people, cars, and narrow streets.

The place of his boyhood, the old ballet theater loomed before them, as the Doctor huffed beside him catching her breath. Without pausing, he reached into his jacket lining and pulled the rosary from his pocket. When he knocked on the ticket office window, the woman inside barely lifted her head.

“We are closed,” she replied in a clipped Russian accent.

He slammed the rosary against the glass, and the woman raised an eyebrow, before her eyes widened in recognition.

They were admitted immediately. He turned backward as he ushered the Doctor inside. They were followed, as he suspected. He stepped inside, knowing they had run out of time.

*** 

A dozen men and women in suits and black jackets watched them carefully as they entered, lined against the walls like sentinels. The tones of a grand piano resonated softly from the center of the room, though he didn’t recognize the tune. 

A few of them were familiar faces, though it had been too long to remember their individual names. At a long table at the front of the room, he dropped his rosary in front of the man seated there, waiting expectantly.

“ _It’s been awhile,”_ the man said by way of greeting, in Russian.

John ignored him, choosing instead to empty his pockets. He placed a marker and a gold coin next to the rosary. 

The man pointed to his waist. “ _And the belt.”_

He looked at him incredulously. He had only done _business_ with the belt once, and that was long ago, in a moment of desperation. He wondered with irritation, how even that detail had become common knowledge. He whipped the belt off his pant loops, and placed it with mock reverence on the table.

They turned to the Doctor, who was so silent, John had almost forgotten she was standing behind him. _“Who is she?”_

John turned back to look at her. She was still out of breath, her coat halfway off her shoulders. She froze when she noticed them all looking her way. _“A doctor. She’s with me.”_ He replied smoothly in Russian. 

They didn’t look convinced. One of the men, a towering tattooed figure, took her coat and patted her down. The Doctor frowned, but complied silently. The man moved on and began emptying her coat pockets. They removed a tiny first aid kit, several orange pill bottles, a US passport, and a wallet containing her ID. 

_Always ready to run._ She gave him a shy shrug, uncomfortable at having her contraband unearthed before an audience. Apparently satisfied, the man nodded towards his superiors. 

“ _Show them the way.”_

He grabbed the rosary off the table. _“Be seeing you.”_

_“Be seeing you.”_ Three men echoed back. It was their ritual greeting. In their line of business, they seldom did see each other again.

The Director was inside the theater, watching a lone ballerina dancing on the stage, a single spotlight following her perfect movements, until the dancer faltered. _“Again!”_ Her bark echoed across the empty theater, as John moved down the aisle. That sharp voice filled him with so many memories. Though he had not seen her in decades, she was the same harsh woman. Hawk-like in appearance, sharp black eyes, large pointed nose, thin, displeased lips, painted a deep red. She barely glanced at him, as he kneeled before her, instead turning her eyes back to the ballerina pirouetting endlessly in the spotlight.

“Jardani. Why have you come home?”

He bristled at that name. The name of the helpless orphan from Belarus, begging on the streets, lying cold in the dark from fear and hunger. This was not his home, but a reminder of another time, another kind of hell. He showed her the rosary. She sneered down at it, her long nose pointed to the ceiling.

“You present this to me like an answer.”

John stiffened, holding back the anger in his throat. “I still have my ticket.”

“After all the chaos you’ve caused for the last few weeks, you think your ticket is valid?” Her black eyes narrowed. “You forget that the Ruksa Roma is bound by the High Table, and the High Table stands above all?”

She looked at the Doctor, hovering cautiously behind him. “And you bring this _woman_ with you. The one marked for death. You honor me by bringing death to my front door?”

He stayed kneeling, the rosary still in his hand, his hand shaking as he clenched his fist. After everything he had done for her, and the Ruska Roma. They had used him like a tool, almost to death before he had broken away. She owed him, and she knew it. 

“Oh Jardani, what has become of you?” She shook her head at him, her look pitying.

He willed himself not to lose his temper, to give in to the urges of the _Baba Yaga._

“ _I am Jardani Jovonovich. I am a child of the Belarus, an orphan of your tribe. You are bound to help me.”_ He gritted his teeth, the Russian sliding off his tongue harsher and more biting from the strain of reigning in his inner rage.

“You are bound, and I am owed.”

The Director’s face changed from pity to cold remorse.

“Rooney, enough!”

The ballerina still dancing herself to exhaustion, collapsed, panting on the stage. Even from their position, the dark, purple bruises were clearly visible on her calves.

“ _With me.”_ The Director motioned her head towards the stage exit. John followed, until he noticed the Doctor had paused before the doorway. She was looking back at the dancer, a look of sadness and pity on her face, a hesitant footstep turned towards the stage. The Dancer returned the look, with a quiet look of despair.

John grabbed the Doctor’s arm, and shook his head firmly. She froze when she caught his look, then followed him silently to the doorway. 

The Director was not waiting for them. She walked through a hallway, to a dressing room where more weary dancers were waiting in the wings. They looked spiritless. Just beaten enough to obey, but still alive enough to carry out the work. The look on their faces stirred old memories, fueled the rage burning inside him.

“You are owed?” Her voice mocked. “You are owed nothing Jardani.” The Director spat, observing her students with steely eyes as she moved through the room at a rapid pace.

“You know when my pupils first come here, they wish for one thing. A life, free of suffering. I try to dissuade them from these childish notions, but as you know, art is pain.”

The Doctor flinched, when a young girl removed a bloody toe nail from her big toe. The Director smirked, noting her discomfort.

“Life is suffering.”

They moved down a flight of stairs. “Somehow, you managed to get out,” she continued. “But here you are, back where you began. All of this, for what?”

She paused to look at him, a mocking look in her face. “ _Because of a puppy?”_

He almost growled, tired of her mocking, tired of everyone’s perception of his actions. He did not owe anyone an explanation for his insatiable need for vengeance. “ _It wasn’t just a puppy.”_ He hated that he sounded like a petulant child. He left this place 20 years ago, and he was reduced to the boy who had just arrived there, fresh off the docks, begging for admittance.

They moved towards a large room, with high ceilings and marble walls. The center was filled with boys circled around a wrestling mat. Two boys faced off, throwing each on the mat, the slapping sounds of their bodies being thrown echoing across the wide room. He watched them, lost in his own memories.

“ _Fond memories?”_ The Director smiled sardonically, before moving past him. He couldn’t look away. He remembered Jardani Jovonovich, wondering if he had known then what he would become.

He felt a hesitant hand on his back that broke him from his reverie. Rei was touching his shoulder, a look of concern on her face. He walked on, through another set of rooms, filled with young ballerinas dancing and pirouetting to piano music. The sight of them was exhausting. He was relieved, when they finally entered a private room with a long table, and a lit fireplace.

“Sit.” She commanded. 

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t help you Jardani. The High Table wants your lives. How can you fight the wind? How can you smash the mountains? How can you bury the ocean? How can you escape the light? Of course you can go to the dark, but they’re in the dark too. So tell me Jardani. What do you really want?”

“Passage.”

“Where did you want to go?”

“Casablanca.”

The Director laughed, shaking her head at the two of them seated across the table. “The path to paradise begins in hell.”

Her eyes turned to Rei, a look of intense scrutiny that had the Doctor shifting in her seat. She looked the Doctor up and down, an expression that was at best, unimpressed. “She is not of my tribe, nor does she hold a ticket.”

John shifted forward in his seat. _“She is my ward. She goes with me.”_

The Director was not impressed. _“That’s not my concern, Jardani.”_ She curled a finger towards the Doctor, switching to English. “You. What are you prepared to pay?” She smiled at the Doctor’s subtle shiver. “Nothing in this world is free.”

John opened his mouth, not sure if he was going to threaten her or curse, but he bit his tongue when he noticed the Doctor remove the necklace from her neck, and drop it with a clatter on the table. The Director slid her hand forward and took it, inspecting it carefully. She looked up with a start, peering at Rei.

“The Rose of Sharon _._ Where did you get this?”

Rei did not seem surprised at the reaction. “From my mother.”

The Director raised an eyebrow, a question in her face that John didn’t understand. The Doctor gave her one swift nod, then she seemed satisfied. The Director pocketed the necklace, then tore the cross hanging off his rosary.

“So be it. You hand me your ticket, I will tear it.” The Director looked him in the eye, and John was taken aback by the genuine emotion there. He would have sworn it was something like affection, but that would be impossible.

“If that’s what you really desire.” She said softly. He responded with a solemn nod.

One of her men stepped from the shadows, and took the cross off her hands. John stood to take off his jacket, and unbutton his shirt halfway. He pushed the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the tattoo on his back.

Rei was looking at him questioningly, alarm in her dark eyes.

The man stuck the cross into the fireplace with a poker, waiting until the cross burned bright orange. He felt the brand go into his back with a groan of pain. He heard the sound of his sizzling flesh.

“With this Jardani, your ticket is torn. You can never come home again.” She sounded regretful, but she stood suddenly from her seat.

“Take them to the life boat.” She barked.

_“Do svidanya.”_

_“Do svidanya.”_ He replied, gritting his teeth against the blistering pain as the Director, the only mother figure he had ever known, walked away and disowned him.

***

He tried to put on his shirt, wincing in pain as the fabric touched his raw burn and stuck against the skin. She stopped him, her hand yanking back his sleeve with more force than he expected from someone so small.

“Let me.” She murmured, hovering over his back. She reached for the first aid kit from the table, where their belongings had been unceremoniously dumped. 

She slathered some kind fo salve over it, placing a bandage loosely over the burn. He shrugged into his shirt, tensing as she slid the clothing over his shoulders and helped him with the buttons. She must have noticed him looking down at her, because she stopped suddenly, stepping back. Her cheeks were red.

“Sorry.” She grabbed his suit jacket, waiting as he finished buttoning the shirt, and adjusting his tie. 

“What’s in Casablanca?” She asked suddenly, as he slid his arms into the jacket she offered to him. He put on his belt, and grabbed the marker off the table. She was still watching him, eyes lingering on the marker he shoved deep into a hidden pocket in his suit.

“The Elder.”

She swore softly, her eyes widening. “You’re going to search for him?”

“I’m going to ask him for a way out.” She was shaking her head, her face frozen in fear. He reached out to her instinctively, pulling her close to him. Her anxious eyes snapped up to his face.

“It’s the only way.”

She searched his face, and the fear seemed to melt away as she found something there that gave her resolution. Her trust both intimidated him and endeared him. The protectiveness he felt towards her was startling, and he stopped just short of analyzing why. There was too much uncertainty and struggle ahead to focus on his wayward feelings.

“I trust you. Thank you..”

He was speechless, but she didn’t wait for his response. She crammed the various items on the table into her coat pockets, and followed the Director’s man outside the room.


	9. Chapter 9

_Rei_

The lifeboat was a cargo freighter, crewed by a dozen Ruska Roma. All surly men, who said nothing as they boarded in the cover of darkness. As the crew hastily made preparations to embark, Rei stood at the bow, watching the moonlit horizon, listening to the call of distant seabirds, and the waves slapping against the hull. 

The empty expanse of the ocean, the fresh night air, and the endless night sky had her almost feeling dizzy. She had been confined to the hotel for so long, she had forgotten how wide the world really was. It seemed surreal to think this ship would arrive in Morocco in a few weeks.

As much as she trusted her determined companion, she still shuddered at the thought of asking the Elder for clemency. From the few stories she’d heard, he was the last person to offer mercy, if you were able to find him at all.

She felt John’s presence beside her, a comforting, silent shadow she was becoming used to. He was leaning against the railing, his dark hair obscuring his eyes as he looked towards the horizon.

She had so many questions for him, but she didn’t know how to ask them. She wasn’t even sure if he would answer. She had never imagined John Wick as a child, but back in that Theater she had caught a glimpse of a boy’s eyes, reliving his painful memories. She had seen the vulnerability in him, a curtain to the enigma partially drawn back. He wasn’t always the Baba Yaga, the legendary assassin. He was once a boy, scraping by to survive, to prove himself.

“What is the Rose of Sharon?” The deep rumble of his voice broke her reverie. She turned to look at him, surprised that he would ask. He seemed a private man, and one who tended to return the courtesy to others.

“A symbol of my mother’s family.. A crime syndicate in Seoul.” She smiled bitterly, tasting the irony of it all. “It was the only memento of that side of my family I had. They disowned her when she had me.” She looked back towards the ocean, embarrassed at revealing such personal details about her sordid family history. 

“Your ticket gave me the idea. I figured she could use it to call in a favor from them.” She remembered the knowing look on the Director’s face, the one that had made her feel stripped naked before her. “She seemed to think it was a fair trade.”

“If she took it, it was more than fair.” She felt his steady gaze on her. His unspoken question hung in the air.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met them.” She never wanted to. All she knew was they left her pregnant mother in the cold, simply because she was unwed. And they never reached out to either of them, when they were struggling to make it on their own in California.

“How did you end up..” He faltered, and she turned to look at him. He looked sheepish, like he had crossed a line, committed taboo. For some reason, she didn’t feel that way.

“In Japan?” She closed her eyes, forcing down the sting of old memories, both cherished and painful. When she opened them, he was looking at her, a softness in his eyes that raised a lump in her throat. She swallowed, and continued hastily. “My mother died a few years before I finished medical school. He.. my father.. _Yamada-san_ , showed up at her funeral.”

She remembered him. The short, yet solid man, with fierce, unforgiving eyes. The way he had stared at her, measured her. She should have known not to trust him. But she was lonely and grieving, without family. She wondered if that was his plan, to lure her when she was at her most vulnerable. “He invited me to continue my studies in Tokyo. That he wanted me to join the family there.”

She felt a chill run through her body that was not just from the weather. “I studied to become a surgeon at Tokyo University for nearly five years. In that time, I learned what my family really was. What they really did.” Her hands instinctively touched the gold band on her finger, the weight of the ring felt heavy. It wasn’t the right fit, it slid on her knuckle. They never had the chance to resize it.

“I should have left, John. But I couldn’t..” She felt the tears in her eyes, as she remembered him. His soft brown eyes, his gentle smile. _Ryouta._ “I fell in love with someone. Someone who worked for my father..” She brushed away her tears, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but somehow the experience was cathartic. The words just kept flowing, like a dam had broken inside her. “I couldn’t leave him, even knowing what they did. What he did.”

John was silent and still. She kept going, feeling a sudden need to finish, to have another soul know her story. “Yamada died last year. A stroke.. He had one legitimate son, my older half-brother.” Her hands reached out to grip the railing, her knuckles clenched bone white. “I was in their headquarters at Marunouchi. Waiting for him and his crew to get off work.. That’s when..”

She remembered the gunfire, the confusion. She remembered the way Ryouta’s gentle face changed, the steel in his eye as he shoved her under a desk and pulled out a gun.

“He killed them all. All of his own father’s most loyal men and women.” She looked into the blackness of the ocean, feeling completely empty. “They were my friends. My family.”

She felt a hand on her cheek, and she looked up at John. He was much taller than her, and his face was shrouded by the dark. But she felt a calloused thumb brush away a tear from her cheek, so gently. She let herself enjoy the warmth of that touch, wondering at how much she had missed the simple touch of another human being. Her own hand reached up hesitantly, to find his, her fingertips tracing his scarred knuckles. His hand fell away instantly.

The rumble of the ship’s engine saved them from further embarrassment. The ship was pulling away from the harbor. A horn blasted, interrupting the peaceful silence. The moment had passed.

***

The cabin was small. The air was stuffy, two narrow beds barely fit against each wall. She was exhausted, but each time she drifted to sleep she had nightmares that roused her awake. Each time she had to remember where she was, as her eyes adjusted to the blackness of the room. Her memory was jolted up to speed by the subtle swaying motion of the ship, and the heavy breathing of a man, dead asleep on the opposite side of the wall. 

His back was to her, and he was still fully dressed in his suit. The room felt too warm, and she felt uncomfortable just seeing his twisted form on the too small bed. She thought about giving up on sleep, and walking up to the deck to get some fresh air, then thought better of it. This was not the Continental, and she was no longer protected. She thought of Winston, suddenly missing him. 

It started as a quiet murmur. Rei listened intently, as she heard him mutter something, not in English. Then it was louder, until he was shouting in Russian. He sounded so anguished, so enraged. She sat up on the edge of the bed, leaning forward. There was so little room between the beds, that she was able to reach out across the aisle, and shake his shoulder.

That was a mistake. His movements were a blur, but his hand was on her throat, as he slammed her against the wall, his face a mere inch away from hers. His eyes were dangerous, even glazed over by sleep. Her hands scraped at hands at her throat, her nails digging into his fingers, as she gasped. The bruises, still healing on her neck ached sharply. He didn’t let go immediately. She reached out a hand to slap at his face, hoping she could wake him.

Confusion and recognition turned to horror in those eyes, as his hands dropped from her neck almost instantly. She felt his heavy breath on her face, as she took in air, her hands rubbing her aching neck. 

“ I’m so sorry..” His voice was so low, so mournful, she barely heard him.

She felt like she was seeing him for the first time, all of him. The man and the legend. The grieving widower and the ruthless monster. Those hands that had instinctively comforted her, hours before, had nearly choked the life out of her. She should have been repulsed. She should have feared him. But when those dark, tortured eyes could not find the strength to look at her, she felt his anguish keenly, and forgot fear.

“You were screaming.” Her fingers reached for his chin, forcing him to look at her. He wore an expression of surprise along with the guilt. 

“Bad memories..” He replied gruffly, shifting his face gently away from her fingers.

“Of your time with the Ruksa Roma?”

He stared at her curiously, warily.

“It was an easy guess.. You were shouting in Russian.”

As if noticing the proximity of their faces for the first time, John stepped away from her, settling himself on the edge of his narrow bed. His hands were on his face, rubbing the sleep away, pushing the hair of his eyes.

“You can talk about it, if you want to.” She said softly, watching him. “It helps sometimes..”

She could tell he was considering it, in the silence.

“Did it help you?”

“I think so.” Her hand touched the ring on her finger, rubbing it against her fingerbone. “It comforts me.. That someone understands.” She felt a small smile tugging at her lips, despite everything. “I want to know your story. I’d like us to be friends.”

He looked up at her, raising his face from his hands. “I don’t think you’d want that.” His eyes were hard. “If you knew what I’ve done.”

She measured the solemnity in those words, and the edge of loneliness to them. Behind those intimidating eyes, that frosty demeanor, was an aching loneliness. She understood that, felt that, had a stupid compulsion to soothe that pain. Because she felt it too, and it ate away at her relentlessly.

“Winston told me something about this world. That no one enters it of their own volition.” She felt the pang of sadness in her heart, picturing the craggy face she worried she would never see again. “Some are born into, forced into it. And others..” 

He was leaning forward, listening intently.

“Others are thrown into it, like a grain of sand in the vast ocean. And no matter how they struggle.. No matter how much they tread water, how close they get to the shore, they’re pulled back into the fray. A current grabs hold of them, and they can’t get out.”

He breathed deeply and sighed, a deep resonating sound that seemed to suck the air out of the cabin. “Then what are we doing, Rei?” He had said her name for the first time. She couldn’t help loving the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.

His voice trembled. “What is the point of struggling?”

“You know better than anyone, John.”

There must have been something in her expression that surprised him, because he was looking at her quizzically, his eyebrows knit solemnly.

“To make them pay for it. For taking everything from us.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many things happened between my last update and now. Hoping to get things moving on this story again. It's a short chapter, but I hope a good one. Thanks for paying attention to this lowly story.

_John_

The two weeks on the ship seemed to last an eternity. He hadn’t had the time to sit alone with his thoughts, and confront the chaotic consequences of his actions. Helen had been gone almost a month. The fact was surreal as it was painful, and there was nothing on the ship to distract him from his pain, except _her_.

She followed him like his own shadow. She was always in his eyeline, and he knew from her careful movements, her watchful eyes, that she took no chances. The Ruska Roma eyed them warily. A few of them had a greedy look that he was all too familiar with. It was confirmation of the inevitable, that there was a hefty price on their heads. Their loyalty to the Director was formidable, otherwise they wouldn’t be on this ship, transporting her cargo. But everyone, even the most loyal, had a price.

He didn’t sleep well. It was not just his restlessness, his loneliness, the chaos of his thoughts. It was the proximity of the very female presence, a few feet from his bed every night. The unmistakable scent of her, something soft, almost sweet, in that tiny room. His heart and mind mourned his Helen, but his body betrayed him. He couldn’t deny there were deeper, darker desires he kept a firm lid on with sheer will. He was irrevocably human in his needs, despite what anyone thought of him.

They did not talk much, after that first night. It was not an uncomfortable silence. They seemed to have reached an agreement, that enough had been shared between them. A mutual understanding of boundaries and limitations. They ate their meals in silence, away from the crew. 

She was changing. He sensed it, and saw it. It was in her body language, her expression. It was acceptance and conviction. Focus and determination. The pale, frightened woman was waning. Her complexion had turned a light gold, from the days spent wandering the deck under the sun. Small freckles had formed on her slight nose, smattered the tops of her high cheekbones. Her black hair had sun-bleached to a dark golden brown. For the first time, he realized she was young—at least a decade younger than him. Grief had aged her, and this new found conviction, this purpose, she wore well.

He kept a watchful eye on her, as careful as she was to remain in his sight. They were out for days at sea, on a boat full of greedy men. Some of those men lusted for more than money. He noticed the way their eyes lingered a little too long on her figure, hesitated and measured him, when he caught them looking. 

He felt a strange surge of rage when he saw them, a fierce protectiveness threatening to bring out the boogeyman. They always backed away, to his satisfaction and annoyance. He couldn’t justify his own overreaction. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to her physically. But his instinct to protect her, went beyond attraction. It was more than the redemption he sought for himself, to do one good deed to earn him a step closer to Helen. The thought filled him with remorse. It felt like betrayal.

Every night, he tossed in that uncomfortably narrow bed, strangling his wayward emotions and keeping his too-human urges in check. He bent his mind to what lay directly ahead, feeling a sort of comfort in the familiar struggle for survival against all odds. He thought of Helen, burning the memory of her laughing eyes into his mind, punishing himself as he remembered her, longed for her, ached for her. She was the reason, _his_ reason for living. Was it a reminder, or a warning? He didn’t know.

***

They reached the port of Casablanca in the late afternoon. It was pleasantly warm and dry, and he was thankful for it. His suit stunk, and he sweated in it even as a soft breeze off the ocean cooled his neck. The Doctor was in no better shape, even though she’d wrapped her belongings in her wool coat like a parcel, exposing the stained white blouse underneath. They were disheveled and sour smelling, badly in need of showers and fresh clothes. 

He led her through the bazaar, the stench of fresh seafood thankfully masking their own odors. Still, they got a lot of looks. Even though it was cosmopolitan, Casablanca was a traditionally conservative Muslim city. The looks they were attracting was disconcerting, especially Rei, her shirt collar opened slightly off shoulder, blouse unbuttoned just above indecency.

He thought about warning her, then thought better of it. They were being followed. He sensed the discreet eyes on them, as he wound his way through the streets. He didn’t have a weapon, and he was badly in need of one. He walked hurriedly past the crowd, looking for a place to hide, their best option considering the untested woman behind him. He spotted a narrow alleyway across a dirt path, behind a few clothing stalls. He pulled the Doctor by the arm, the both of them narrowly avoiding a passing tram and slipping into the narrow corridor between two buildings. He waited, motioning for his companion to be silent, his hand tightening on his belt buckle.

Minutes passed, and no one approached them. His eyes scanned the marketplace, but no one in particular stood out. They had to find the Continental, and fast. The light was fading, and the streets would be empty at night.

“Is someone following us?”

He looked down at her. She looked calm, except for her slightly shallow breath. “Probably. We need to get out of the streets, before dark.” He glanced down at her shirt. “Unnoticed, if possible.”

Even in the darkness of the alleyway, he noticed her flush, a hand defensively covering her chest. A flutter of a cloth in the breeze diverted his attention. He yanked the garment off the clothesline by the stall, and a few others.  
  
“Put these on, and follow me closely.” He waited, his eyes fixed carefully on the street as she changed behind him.

After a short moment, he felt her hand touch his arm. She was wearing a light grey kaftan, her dirty shirt and trousers discarded by the side of the alleyway. She had covered her head loosely in the light cream colored scarf. She was still wearing her black shoes, which made a strangely restrictive contrast to the lightweight fabric, but it was barely noticeable under the length of the billowing garment. 

“What about you?” She inclined her head to the row of men’s garments on the other side of the stall. He was tempted, the weight of the kevlar-lined suit heavy on his sweat-slicked skin. 

“No. Keep close, and do what I say, no matter what happens.”

Her smile was tight as she nodded, and she kept her word as she followed close behind him as they exited the opposite side of the alley, under the bright, golden light of the Moroccan sun.

They walked at a brutal pace for hours, and to her credit, the Doctor did not complain. Taking a bus or a taxi would have been a shorter journey, but John couldn’t risk it. Not with a price on their heads.

It had been years since he’d been to Casablanca, visited the Continental here. But sure enough, the cobbled streets became familiar as he approached.They passed old stone viaducts, and faded buildings made of brick, stone, and rammed earth. The light was fading fast, casting a dark shadow across the ancient city, a grey mist beginning to settle in the air around them, a sudden coolness permeating the air.

The streets were eerily empty. He walked faster, forcing his shorter companion to a jog, as they approached the dark underpass of a network of bridges. It was pitch black at the end of the tunnel. He knew they were out of time. With the fading of the light, the hunt would begin in earnest.

A single figure emerged from the end of each exit, three men in total. He felt the hesitant slow of footsteps behind him, the slip of fabric from the hem of her kaftan brushing against his pant-leg. She stood so close, so tense, he could hear her rapid breaths.  
  
“Run.” He ordered, but she didn’t move. And then there was no time. He shoved her roughly against a wall, as the three men drew their knives and came towards him. “Run,” he shouted, dodging the first knife and twisting the arm of his assailant and clobbering him in head with his closed fist. The second man came, and he struck him in the throat. Then the third, he grabbed his knife-hand and slammed roughly against the wall. 

She had not run. The damned woman was crouched on the ground, prying the knife out of the hands of the first assailant, still laying dazed on the floor. He slammed the third man’s head against the brick harder, frustrated.

“Enough!”

They all turned. An unknown man approached, bald and bearded, dressed in a finely embroidered tunic and a suit jacket. 

“I’m afraid our friends here are off-limits.” He lit a cigarette he removed from his shirt pocket, and puffed lightly.

“But he’s excommunicado!” The man against the wall protested, struggling against John’s grip.

“It seems the Manager has granted them amnesty.” The man turned to John, and he couldn’t help feeling a wave of relief, his eyes scanning over Rei, still crouched on the floor, holding the giant knife in her wavering hands.

“Mr. Jonathon, would you be so kind as to come with me?” He looked amused, as he glanced at Rei, still crouched on the ground. “And of course, your companion.”

The three assailants lowered their weapons obediently. John even managed to hand one of them their knife back. He motioned for the Doctor to stand up, and she did, on slightly shaky legs, dropping the knife with a clatter. He hurried her with a light grip on her arm , as the man who had saved them had already turned and was walking away.

The sudden ring of metal alerted him to turn rapidly, just managing to push Rei behind him. A flash of a gunshot erupted to his left, and a knife clattered to the ground, the man who had wielded it falling limp.

Their savior chuckled, tucking the gun into the waist-band of his pants and turning back around to lead the way. “Welcome to Casablanca, Mr. Wick.”

“Thanks.” John mumbled, his eyes focused on the shaky woman next to him. She said nothing as they walked the rest of the way to the hotel. 

They had been saved by Sofia, the Manager of the Continental Casablanca. She was an associate, once a friend, even. But the thought did not comfort him. His hand absentmindedly brushed against his jacket, feeling the metal of the marker sitting in the hidden pocket of his suit. He hoped it would save them. He hoped it was enough.


	11. Chapter 11

_Rei_

The gunshot pierced her healing eardrum painfully, and she flinched without meaning to. She had been holding her breath for another violent confrontation. It seemed inevitable, given their circumstances. But it still caught her off guard when the sound splintered the impasse. John’s reflexes were blinding, so she didn’t see the man fall to the ground, only heard the telltale thud from behind his back. 

Shock faded to irritation. She ignored his questioning glance as they walked across an empty dirt square, towards the solid brick and earth walls of what must be the Moroccan Continental, Casablanca. Yassin, their savior and host, was exchanging pleasantries with John, but she barely heard him. 

The confrontation had put into sharp perspective her own helplessness. It wasn’t fear that froze her from action. It was inexperience, uncertainty. She was clueless when it came to the physicality of these encounters. She remembered John’s urgency, when he commanded her to run. She had frozen in confusion. Run where? Hide where? And if he fell, what then?

She had never hesitated nor feared to pass any mental test in her life. She was a master of analysis, study, meticulous planning. She possessed a focus that bordered on obsession when it came to learning things. But she doubted anyone mastered the art of combat, or self-defense by reading a hundreds of books and papers on the subject.

Her carefully constructed confidence during the journey at sea was crumbling, like the run down buildings they had passed by moments ago. Foolishly, she had kindled not only a hope of survival, but also of vengeance. She looked at John, as they crossed an open courtyard full of guests drinking, smoking hookah, mingling with belly dancers under the starlight. People like him lived their entire lives breathing violence. How was she to survive, in a world built for men like John Wick?

“Miss Al-Azwar is waiting for you. Best of luck Mr. Wick.” Yassin was smiling, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he motioned towards a set of ornately carved doors. John shifted, and she swore there was a small bob in his throat as he swallowed discreetly. Was he nervous?

They entered a suite, dimly lit by a few hanging paper lamps. It had an unmistakable woman’s touch, filled with bright mosaic patterns, ornate rugs and draperies. The first thing she noticed was an abundance of picture frames on every open surface. The same smiling girl was in each one, curly haired, the spitting image of the beautiful woman holding her tightly in each picture. John seemed to hesitate, moving no further into the room than the entryway. 

There was a low growl. A dog emerged from the darkness, baring its gleaming white teeth. She backed away slowly, as it’s twin emerged from the other side, growling louder. They looked like skinny German shepherds, very unfriendly ones. 

“Hello, John.”

She presumed it was Miss Al-Alzwar who emerged from an open doorway, a gun in her hands, pointed solely at John. If she saw Rei, she never gave an indication. She was unspeakably lovely, her golden-brown hair tumbling in waves down her shoulders, her caramel skin smooth, her long neck covered in golden jewelry. She moved with a deadly grace, a furious scowl maring her ageless face.

“Sofia.” John’s voice was quiet, hesitant. His hands were up, and Rei noted a look of uncertainty in his eyes that frightened her. 

_BANG._ Rei dropped to the ground, her hands covering her ears at the sound of the gunshot. John was floored from the impact.

“Sofia! You can’t kill the bearer of your marker.” His voice was an exasperated growl. Rei moved towards him, grabbing the suit and watching with relief as the bullet casing dropped harmlessly from the lining.

Sofia moved steadily closer, the gun still in her hands. “I didn’t kill you. I just shot you.” Sofia’s eyes finally flickered to her, before returning her gaze to John. “Nice suit.”

“Good to see you too.” He muttered in reply. Rei forced down her incredulity, her eyes darting between the two embroiled in this ridiculous and dangerous exchange.

“What did you do?” Sofia’s voice was tight, her words forced through clenched teeth, but the grip on her firearm dipped slightly. John was standing up, and she followed his movements, slow and deliberate, her hands up, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

“I need your help..” John reached into the pocket of his suit. Sofia immediately stiffened, the gun pointed directly at his face this time.

“Don’t you do it.”

He pulled out the marker and opened it, displaying two bloody sets of finger prints, side by side. “This is your blood, your bond.”

Her whole body seemed to turn to stone, and her dark brown eyes blazed with anger.  
  
“You’re excummincado. That marker means shit.” 

“Please.” The word tumbled out of her mouth, and Sofia’s blazing eyes settled on her. Her finely arched eyebrows raised as she appraised her. “Who are you? And why is the Elder looking for you?”

Rei looked at John, a feeling of numb shock overcoming her. He seemed just as surprised as she was. “He’s looking for me?” She hated the way her voice shook, and the brief look of pity on their host’s face.

“You have no idea what you’re into, do you?” Sofia aimed a pointed glare at John, who seemed almost to wilt under her gaze. Then her arm suddenly relaxed, her weapon aimed to the floor.

“Sit.”

Her dogs sat, no longer growling. Sofia eyed them sardonically when they remained standing, rooted to the ground. “I meant you two.” She flicked her head to the sofa further in the room. Licking her dry lips, Rei followed John’s lead and sat.

John set the marker on the coffee table carefully, as if reminding Sofia of their bond. She scowled at it, then at John.

“I should shoot you in the head right now.”

He ignored her. “He’s looking for her?”

“Both of you. It’s the only reason you’re not dead.”

He seemed to consider her, the two of them staring at each other in a silent, secret communication that frustrated Rei.

“How do we find him?”

Sofia made a derisive noise in her throat. “You don’t find the Elder, John. He finds you.” She flicked her eyes at Rei again, assessing her. “If you’re still alive.”

“Do we have your protection?” Rei asked, her voice sounding alien to her own ears.

“I’m not in service anymore, I don’t go shooting people in the head.” Her eyes narrowed, her voice pointed as she glared at John. “But the Elder has made it clear he wants to see you, alive.” Sofia let out an exasperated sigh. “I want to know what kind of trouble I’m getting into. Before I agree to anything.” She leaned forward, a glimmer of fear and frustration shining in her eyes, mingled with the anger. “I can’t afford to make enemies of the High Table, John. You know why.”

John’s normally emotionless face seemed to soften, and Rei noticed how weary he looked, how the lines in his face seemed deeper, more shadowed. 

“Do you want to know where she is?” He asked quietly.

“No. I don’t ever want to know. Because I don’t trust that I won’t go find her.” There was a painful break in Sofia’s voice. Tears brimmed her eyes. “A part of me longs for her. And I have to kill that part of myself everyday, just to keep her safe. Because sometimes, you have to kill what you love.”

Rei looked away, overcome by the raw emotion on the stranger’s face. A feeling of guilt swept over her as she fixed her eyes on the intricate pattern of the carpet under her feet. Was anyone free under the table?

“Consequences,” John said quietly.

“Yeah, consequences.” She replied in sad agreement.

“I’m sorry Miss Al-Azwar.” Rei didn’t look up as she spoke, even though she felt their eyes on her. She didn’t want them to see her tears, the evidence of her weakness, her shame. “I made therah decision to kill Santino. I wanted to stop running for the first time in my life.” She gave herself a moment to get a hold of herself, then braved a glance at Sofia. She was staring back quietly, just listening. “I didn’t think about how the consequences would reach others.” 

She dropped her eyes again, feeling increasingly ashamed and embarrassed, pathetic and weak. “But I have no choice but to beg for your help. I’m.. hopeless, without it.”

A calloused hand brushed the tip of her fingers. She looked up to find John staring at her, a foreign but heated look on his face.

Sofia’s loud snort diverted her attention. “I think you give yourself too much credit, miss..?”

“Rei. Rei Lee,” she replied softly, confused by the sudden mirth in Sofia’s tone.

“..Rei Lee. I’ve know John a very long time. We’ve worked together.” Sofia’s look was hard as she looked at John. “I’ll bet my life, and my dogs, that none of this is your fault.”

The accusatory note in her voice was sharp, and Rei noticed the sudden steeliness in John’s eyes. 

“You’re just another butterfly caught in the burning wheel that is John Wick.” She felt John bristle beside her, watched the smolder of anger in those black eyes. Sofia didn’t seem at all phased, matching his look with a fire all her own. “He tends to run over everything in his path, friend or foe.”

Rei couldn’t help feeling like she had disappeared from the room, as the tension in the air began to thicken between them. She cleared her throat, hoping to catch their attention, then spoke when neither of them seemed to notice.

“Miss Al-Azwar..”

An eternity seemed to pass, but Sofia finally acknowledged that she had spoken. “It’s Sofia.” She stood suddenly, and her dogs snapped to attention, trailing her footsteps.

“I’ll show you to your rooms.” Sofia glanced backwards, as the two of them stood to follow her. She wrinkled her nose. “I would suggest you take a bath first.”

“Sofia..” 

“Tomorrow, John. I’ll take you where you can find the Elder.”

***

She took her time in the bath, scrubbing herself vigorously with a rose scented soap and sinking into the scalding water. The warmth soothed her aching muscles as she tried to clear the complicated thoughts in her head. 

The idea of finding the Elder, and somehow surviving the encounter felt impossible. Yet two weeks ago, she thought she would never leave New York alive. Here she was, sitting in a copper bathtub in Casablanca’s most exclusive hotel. 

She had to take things a day at a time, or her fragile hope would crumble. The precarious grip she has on her sanity, her false confidence would shatter. She closed her eyes, and sunk into the water. A comforting thought floated to the top of her mind. She wasn’t alone.

She left the tub an hour later, weary and longing for sleep. She nearly lost her grip on her towel when she realized someone was in her room. 

John was sitting on the edge of a chaise, his hands folded in his lap, waiting. Without a sound or a flicker of emotion, he turned around as she fumbled for a clean set of clothes at the foot of her bed and dressed hastily.

“You could have warned me.”

Back still turned, he shrugged his shoulders. He looked strange out of his usual black suit. He was wearing a plain white shirt and wide legged pants that looked as if they were made of linen. His hair was wet and she noted the smell of the same floral hotel soap she had used hanging in the air. Less formally attired, she couldn’t help noticing how the shirt fit tightly across his broad shoulders and strong arms.

“You can turn around now.” 

He turned, leaning back on the chaise and closing his eyes as if to sleep.

“Is there something you wanted?”

His eyes flickered open. “No. Get some rest.”

She didn’t move immediately to the bed, suddenly wide awake and unsure. She wanted to ask him so many things, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.

“It’s safer if I’m here.” His voice was so gentle, so reassuring. 

She nodded slowly, moving towards the bed and sliding under the silky covers. His eyes were closed, his hands behind his head, his long legs dangling over the edge of the chaise. With one last glance at his resting form, she reached over to turn off the lamp by her beside.

The room was flooded with darkness, and the silence felt deafening. It was broken by distant laughter outside the courtyard, where the midnight revelers were still drinking under the stars. She was exhausted but wide awake.

“John..”

“Yes?”

His quiet reply comforted her, and she fumbled for a question. She wanted to hear his voice, to know she wasn’t alone in the dark.

“The Elder.. why do you think he’s looking for us?”

There was a pause, and she pictured his serious face contemplating the question. She listened to his steady breathing in the silence.

“I don’t know, Rei.” He replied softly.

His reply has the opposite effect it should have had on her. She was glad it was too dark for him to see her smile.

“You’re not going to get hurt. You have my word.”

He said it was so much conviction. She ignored the warmth spreading through her cheeks, and the loud thumping in her chest. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.


End file.
